


i will hold on hope (and i won't let you choke)

by onierokinetic



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, Eddie and Stan are still dead sorry, Gen, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Not A Fix-It, Suicidal Thoughts, can be read as stozier/streddie?, it's not as explicit as the reddie tho sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-06
Updated: 2020-03-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:33:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 40,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23042545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onierokinetic/pseuds/onierokinetic
Summary: Over half a year after leaving Derry the second time, Richie is not handling his new memories very well. Sick with grief and riddled with guilt, he finds himself slipping into the most severe depressive episode of his life. Depressed and fully unable to take care of himself, Richie beings to lose his hope that things will get better.Enter Beverly, Ben, Mike, and Bill.Richie is surprised with an impromptu visit from the four people he loves the most, who are determined to help him start his road to recovery. It’s not easy, and they find themselves messing up just as much as they help, but they will be there for their friend no matter what.***A post-canon It Chapter 2 fic about the remaining Losers' Club helping Richie get through his depressive episode and start on the road to healing and feeling like a functional human being again.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, The Losers Club & Richie Tozier, mentioned Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, mentioned Bill Denbrough/Audra Phillips, mentioned Patricia Blum Uris/Stanley Uris
Comments: 8
Kudos: 37





	i will hold on hope (and i won't let you choke)

**Author's Note:**

> Y'all mind if I?? *aggressively projects onto Richie Tozier*
> 
> Title comes from The Cave by Mumford and Sons
> 
> Anyway, this fic starts out pretty dark, so quick TW for: depression, depictions of a severe depressive episode, slight mentions of suicidal thoughts, violent/sometimes graphic intrusive thoughts, mention of bodily fluids (surprisingly, not vomit!), and eating habits that border on disordered eating. If there are any more I missed that you think should be mentioned, feel free to tell me!
> 
> Also, I haven't finished the book yet but this fic does mix a bit of book canon in with movie canon because,, , I'm the author and I Can Do That. You don't necessarily need to read the book to understand this, but a few things (like how the Losers met Ben and who Sandy is) might be a bit confusing.

Richie doesn’t remember leaving Derry. He doesn’t remember anything between rinsing off in the quarry and being in his lonely LA house. It’s not necessarily large, not for LA celebrity standards at least, but Richie is now fully aware of exactly how large and _empty_ it is. He’s alone in a house with two spare bedrooms, a kitchen that’s been nearly empty for as long as he owned it, and bare walls only occasionally broken up by the abstract art that was there when he bought it. He doesn’t remember anything from the in-between, but he remembers before. He vividly remembers what happened at Jade of the Orient and everything that followed. He remembers the Losers, the ones alive and the ones he lost. Sometimes, he thinks it would be better if he didn’t. 

Richie’s phone has been on Do Not Disturb for about as long as he’s been home. He got a call from Steve, his manager, early on. He couldn’t handle it; didn’t want to get chewed out for bombing the show and ditching responsibilities. He didn’t want to hear about Reno and all the other dates that he needed to get his shit together for. He didn’t want to hear anything about the job he wasn’t sure he wanted to do anymore. But he couldn’t just shut his phone off. 

As much as it hurt to remember the Losers, he couldn’t just abandon them like that, (or rather, he didn’t want them to abandon him again. He doesn’t know how much longer he can survive on his own.) It hurts to see only 4 pictures at the top of their group chat every time he opens it to respond, knowing that he _should_ be seeing 6. It hurts to see Ben and Beverly, happily in love and starting their life together, even if he is happy for them deep down. It’s hard to see Bill talk about his new book, the one he’s writing based on their experience (he doesn’t think he’ll ever read that one. He hopes Bill doesn’t expect him to). It hurts to see Mike doing just fine on his own when Richie is deeply aware of the loneliness in his own heart. It hurts every time he tries to crack a joke and it falls flat, (they say they’re laughing, but he knows when a joke doesn’t hit. He can’t remember the last time one has.) wishing that someone was there to at least tell him the joke was bad; wishing for at least one of his two harshest critics. 

It hurts, but he checks it frequently anyway. Sometimes it’s the only thing he _can_ do. When he’s laying in bed, with a growling stomach and a full bladder, he checks his phone. If he can at least do that, then it won't be a bad day after all. Maybe it’ll help him find the energy to get up and pee. Or maybe he’ll just use the near-full Gatorade bottle on his nightstand again. Maybe one of the others will send a picture of their meal to the group or talk about what they had for lunch, and Richie will find the energy to leave his room for the first time in days to scavenge for food in his empty kitchen. Or maybe he’ll just munch on the box of stale crackers he brought up here a few days ago, washing it down with water that has clearly gone bad in its cheap plastic bottle. ( _You know those bottles carry cancer! The plastic deposits carcinogens in the water after too long, not to mention they’re bad for the environment_ a voice in his mind berates him. The same voice he used to long to hear. One that he can no longer stomach.) 

Maybe he can’t take care of himself, but he can check the group chat. He can tell the others he’s doing fine and watch each of them live the lives he doesn’t have the energy for. Sometimes he doesn’t say anything to them. One day of silence will turn into two, which turns into three and four. In those silent days, he’ll get direct messages from each of them. Sometimes it’s easier to reply to those than it is to the group chat. It’s a little less daunting, and he knows that whatever he says to one will be passed to the others, but he doesn’t mind. Sometimes it's just easier that way. 

Richie doesn’t remember when he woke up. He knows he had a nightmare last night, but he’s never been lucky enough to wake up in the middle of one to get rid of it. No, Richie has always slept soundly through each nightmare, waiting for it to fade to dreamless sleep or another terrifying scene. One second he’s watching Eddie bleed out on top of him and the next, Stan’s voice leaves Eddie’s lips and asking why Richie didn’t do anything. Eddie and Stan’s voices blend. _Why didn’t you save me, Richie? Don’t you love me?_ rings through his ears throughout the morning, as he stares at the blinds on the window, telling himself that he can see the snowfall between the closed slats. 

Every dozen seconds or so, his phone buzzes violently from where it sits on the hard surface of his nightstand, (his phone may be on Do Not Disturb, but each of the remaining Losers have been listed as “favorites” in his contacts, so their messages always come through.) but he makes no move to grab it. He tries to will himself to do so, but his arms just tighten around his blankets, as if to tell him that they’re not going to move no matter what. He tries everything he can. He takes deep breaths and calms his mind, hoping it will cause his body to move subconsciously. It doesn’t help. He counts down from three, hoping to move on one. He does it three more times. His body doesn’t move. With a deep sigh, he burrows himself further into the blankets, cursing himself when his body flips to face away from the nightstand. 

He doesn’t have the energy to check the group chat right now. All he can do is make himself comfortable and ignore the grumbling of his stomach that has become a staple in his life now. At least he doesn’t have to pee... yet. He’s been doing that less overall, a result of just how little he’s been eating or drinking. In the back of his mind, he’s worried about just how dark the liquid in his bedside Gatorade bottle has gotten, but he can’t find it in himself to do anything to fix it. He’ll get around to it... when he gets better. He doesn’t know when that will be, but all he has left is to hold onto the hope that eventually he’ll be okay. 

He doesn’t drift off to sleep again. Instead, he stares at the blank wall ahead of him. He tries to keep his mind clear and empty, but his brain never really worked like that. He was never in his life able to get it to quiet down. Why would it start now? Not with the intense _EddieEddieEddie_ invading his mind, or the steady **Stan** , basing each of his thoughts. 

He’s only granted a reprieve from the memory of his two friends when his mind goes towards the others. When he thinks of Ben and Beverly and can’t help but _hate_ them. He imagines each of them being the one to die, and not Eddie. He imagines Eddie living, and both Richie and Eddie rubbing their love ( _not that there would be if he were alive_ a voice in his mind reminds him) in the faces of either Ben or Beverly, whichever one is alive, in the same way they seem to be doing to Richie. It hurts, he doesn’t want to think of them like this. He hates himself for it, but he’s not in control of his mind. He hasn’t been in a while. 

He thinks of Bill. He doesn’t think of Bill as he is now, but rather as he was when they were kids. When Bill was leading them through the sewers, intent on finding Georgie. He thinks of the Bill who punched Richie in the face because all he wanted was to protect Eddie. A voice in the back of his head, one that sounds too much like that fucking clown, tells him it’s because he knew. 

_Bill knew about Eddie. He knew how you felt, he knew your secret. That’s why he hit you. Because you’re dirty Richie, you always will be._

He wants to hurt Bill, too. He wants Bill to hurt in the same way Richie is. 

He thinks of Mike, who called them back. Mike who stayed, Mike who knew that they were all happy and successful in their lives. And sure, maybe they didn’t have each other, but whoever said money can’t buy happiness was just poor and bitter. A part of Richie, (the Real Richie, not the voice in his head) reminds him that he wasn’t happy, not really. But that doesn’t matter, because Mike called them back and because of that, Richie won't ever actually get to be happy. Mike who was selfish, who wanted them back and who wanted those kids to stop dying. Richie thinks, not for the first time, that all of the kids in Derry could die for all he cares. He’d do it himself if it meant that Eddie and Stan were alive and happy, even if he can't guarantee that Eddie would be. 

He tries to tell himself these thoughts are irrational. That he loves his friends, and they love him, but he can’t help but hurt. Guilt consumes him with every thought that runs through his mind, but he’s not in control. He loves them, he needs to remind himself, but does he really? He doesn’t actually _know_ them. Not anymore. They've spent longer apart than they have together. If they were really friends, they would know something’s up. They would be here. They would help him. 

Richie drifts in and out for the rest of the morning. Always conscious, only sometimes aware. The thoughts persist, old and new, but he’s used to them by now. A few tears tickle his cheeks, but he can’t bring himself to wipe them away. 

_You deserve this Richie. You could have saved them, but you didn’t. It should have been you, Richie. They’re gone and it’s all your fault, you deserve this pain._

He startles violently when he feels soft fingers brush his face. For a split second, he’s scared that something is in here with him. Images of Henry Bowers flash through his mind, quickly being replaced by Pennywise when his eyes focus enough to see the orange hair in front of him. _It’s Beverly, it’s just Bev_ , he settles. _Beverly lives in Nebraska. Or was it New York? Is she visiting? How did she get into my house? Is it really Beverly, or is this just another trick by It?_ But most importantly, _Why is she here?_

“Oh, honey,” Beverly says, speaking softly as if she’s scared she’s going to startle him again. The pads of her fingers don’t leave his face, they simply move across his cheekbones, wiping away the tears that have settled there. Her nails catch on the crust of the dried tear tracks and she smiles sadly. 

“Hey bud, how you feeling?” 

Richie wants to respond to her. He does, but when he opens his mouth and all that comes out is a broken croak. He can’t remember the last time he _talked,_ and he's scared for a second that he won't even remember how. He shuts his mouth. 

Beverly moves her hand from his face and into his hair. He stares into her eyes, watching her intently and returning the same intense gaze she’s giving him. He waits for her to flinch, to grimace at how greasy his hair is. He can’t remember the last time he washed it, his showers now being only once a week in which he sits in the tub and cries. He never uses soap, and he knows his hair probably looks wet with how shiny it is. Yet, her fingernails still scratch lightly against his scalp in a way that sends warmth through his body. His skin tingles with every point of contact between them, and he allows himself to close his eyes and receive the comfort that comes with each of these touches. Soon, a second hand joins her first, and she concentrates deeply on trying to lightly detangle his hair. Richie’s mind screams at him to move away. That she could be another trick by It, but maybe It killing him would be a blessing in a clown disguise. But he knows that It wouldn’t be this tender with him. It wouldn’t try to play the long game like this. 

He wants to move away. He’s disgusting and he doesn’t want Beverly to see the proof of that. He doesn’t want her to see him like this, and when he opens his eyes again, it’s like she’s looking into his soul. The rest of her is a blur, but her irises are in sharp focus, looking to him like she might find the answers to a question Richie can’t handle. He hates it. 

“When was the last time you took a shower?” she asks. Her voice is still light, but Richie flinches at the conviction in her tone. Like she’s about to get down to business. He honestly can’t remember when he showered last, but he’s afraid to tell her that. They both know it’s been a while, but the thought of verbalizing that is terrifying. It would be admitting defeat. He just grunts in response, hoping that she’ll understand what he’s trying to say, even if he doesn’t himself really know what that is. 

Her hands leave his scalp as she pushes herself up into a standing position. He doesn’t move, still curled up like a fetus on his bed as Beverly leans down to lay a kiss on his greasy forehead, before telling him to stay put, and that she’ll be right back. If he were more himself, he would have had a smart quip for her, but he can’t speak it. 

_Where else am I gonna go, Ringwald?_

Richie watches as she tries to make her way to the ensuite bathroom, stumbling and tripping over the various piles of trash and clothes on the floor on her way there. Watching Beverly leave hurts. It hurts a lot, and for a second he doesn't think she’ll ever come back; he knows it’s stupid. The only way to actually leave would be to go through his bedroom door, not to the bathroom. 

_She said she’d be back. Why would she lie to you?_ He tries to reassure himself. 

_Because you’re a lost cause, Richie. Not even Beverly can do a thing to help you now. Not that she would want to in the first place. You haven’t done anything for her. You don’t deserve her. You don’t deserve—_

Beverly reappears suddenly in the bedroom, dropping down to squat next to the bed, at eye level with Richie. 

“Come on, Hun, I’m running you a bath right now. Can you get up for me?” she asks. 

No. He can’t. He shakes his head lightly, averting his eyes in shame. He couldn’t even if he tried. 

“Here, I’ll help you. Come on.” She stands up again, disentangling his arms from the heavy blanket and pulling it off of him, revealing his sweat-stained t-shirt and the same pair of boxer-briefs he’s been wearing since whenever the last time he showered was. He’s gotten so used to his own scent, that he doesn’t really smell it anymore. But now that the blanket barrier is gone, even he can smell the musky stench emanating from those boxers. He hasn’t pissed or shit himself, that he knows for sure, but he sure hasn’t washed himself or those boxers thoroughly enough. Shame fills his entire body. Tears begin to blur his vision even more than it had been before, without his glasses. Beverly doesn’t say anything about it though. She simply sits down on the mattress next to him. His thigh just brushing hers. 

“Rich, let me help you sit up, okay?” He looks over to her, still largely unable to see. He can’t make out the patient smile on her face nor the pleading eyes. All he can see is a blurry arm, turning into a crisp hand, holding out to him and waiting for him to grab it. He finds it in himself to reach for her, grabbing her hand with his before feeling himself being lifted up. Beverly bears the brunt of his entire weight as she drags him into a sitting position, and Richie isn’t sure if it’s because he’s lost an alarming amount of weight or if she’s just strong. For his own sake, he lets himself believe that it’s the latter. Maybe she’s been working out with Ben. Or maybe she’s always been strong. Not that he would know— 27 years of separation and all. 

“Stand up, before you lose all that momentum,” she orders him. She’s still pulling him, lightly, not enough to move him but just enough to encourage him to swing his legs around the side and stand up. It’s a little too fast, and he can feel his vision swimming and his legs buckling, but Beverly lets go and grabs him around the waist before he can fall. 

“And now, into the bathroom!” she laughs, once he’s able to regain enough strength to stand on his own. Her arm is still wrapped around his waist as she leads him into the bathroom, where he can feel the moisture in the air while he breathes. He still doesn’t have his glasses on, so he can’t see the tub filled with water or the steam coming off, but he knows it’s there. He could have sworn that Beverly wasn’t in there long enough to let the tub fill, but his perception of time has been a bit shot for a while now, so who knows how long she spent in that bathroom before she came back to get him. 

“Okay, so I’m just gonna go out and get you some clean clothes, when I come back I want to see you in that bath,” Bev says, making a move to leave the bathroom. Richie panics at the idea of being left again. Sure, he’s done more just now than he’s been able to in days, but what will sitting in the bath do when he’s not even sure that he can clean himself? He reaches out and snatches her wrist before she can leave.

“Stay,” he croaks. “Please.” 

Beverly’s face falls. Until now, she hadn’t let her stoic mask leave her face. Her smile was gentle and encouraging, never once did Richie feel like she was pitying him. But her gentle smile turns into a frown and her eyebrows turn downwards in a way that makes Richie want to run far away from here. It’s hard to tell through the blurriness, but Richie hates himself for ruining that smile. 

“Y-yeah. Yeah, of course, Hun. I’ll stay with you.” 

Richie can feel his shoulders physically relax. He’d solved that problem, but now onto his next. How is he supposed to take his nasty clothes off and get into the bath when not only do his arms felt too heavy to lift but also when he can’t stand the idea of _anyone_ seeing how sickly and disgusting his body now is. Beverly seems to note his hesitance and walks over to him. 

“Arms up,” she demands before she starts pulling up on the hem of his loose t-shirt. Richie quickly moves his arms up to wrap around his chest, trying to prevent her from taking it off. 

“Richie, you can’t get in the tub with your clothes on,” she tries, but all she gets in response is a whimper. She watches as he looks down at his body and grimaces, and that’s when she gets it. “I won't look, I promise. Richie, I won't look okay, but you need to take these clothes off.” 

He’s still not convinced, but he knows she’s right, so Richie moves his arms the rest of the way up. Time passes more quickly than it realistically should, but that’s something Richie is used to by now. The forgetting. Being in one place one moment and in another the next. One second Bev is helping him take his shirt off and in the next, he’s sitting in the scalding water. He’s got his hands under the water, trying to regain feeling in his ever cold fingers while Beverly cups her hands and brings it up and over his hair, careful not to get any in his eyes. 

Neither of them speak as she reaches up to the shower caddy hanging at the other side of the shower wall, grabbing his bottle of 3-in-1. He can see the grimace on her face at the bottle, but she doesn’t say anything as she pumps it into her hand and begins to lather his hair. For the first time in months, Richie’s thoughts clear. The only thing that exists in this moment are Beverly’s fingers running through his hair and massaging his scalp. She methodically untangles his hair and scrubs away the grease. On more than one occasion, she grabs the removable shower head and rinses his hair only to go back and lather it up once more. Beverly finishes washing Richie’s hair too soon. Richie knows that overwashing is probably really bad for his hair, but so is washing it with the 3-in-1 he does so he would gladly risk it to feel her fingers in his hair again. He can’t ask her to continue though. She’s already done so much. Eventually, she leans away from the tub from where she’s sitting on the toilet and reaches under the sink, humming cheerfully when she manages to find a clean rag. She dips it into the sudsy water before pumping some more of the 3-in-1 onto the rag and reaching toward him. 

“You know, back when my bathroom was covered in blood, Stan—”

Richie stops her before she could touch the rag to the hairy skin on his chest, interrupting her. “I can do it.” He doesn’t want to hear whatever story she was about to tell about Stan. Doesn’t think he can stomach it right now. His voice is unnaturally quiet and had the bathroom not been so deadly silent, he would have been afraid she couldn’t hear him. But the smile on her face is evidence that she did. She passes him the rag, and he just stares at it sitting heavy with water. He takes in a deep breath, letting it out shakily before methodically starting to scrub at his skin. 

“Is it okay if I go out and grab you some clothes real quick?” Beverly asks. Richie grunts in affirmation as a response. His throat is already starting to feel scratchy from just the one use. He’s ashamed of just how _pathetic_ that is. He’d only said a couple words to her and his voice is already starting to give out? However, he’s saved from spiraling further into the depression thoughts when Beverly starts to rummage around his bare closet. He can’t see her, even with his glasses he doesn’t have a view into the closet through the open bathroom door, but he can hear her. He can see her form disappear and reappear frequently as she searches for something. _Clean clothes, probably. Don’t think laundry has gotten done even one since getting home._

By the time Beverly walks in with fresh clothes and his glasses, Richie has his hand and the rag under the water, focused intently on cleaning around his genitals. He jumps when Beverly set the clothes down on the toilet next to him, his hand flying out of the water and spraying her slightly. “I wasn’t-” he starts, but Beverly just laughs. She reaches over to put Richie’s glasses over his stunned face and widened eyes. At first, her laugh is just a giggle behind her hand, but it soon turns into deep, belly laughter. Her eyes are bright with joy and her hair seems to glow, backlit by the yellow bathroom light. She looks beautiful, and for the first time in months, Richie feels _nothing_ but pure love for his best friend. 

“N-no. Richie, I didn’t think-” she tries to say through her tears, once her laughter starts to calm down. “Just do us all a favor and finish cleaning your dick, Tozier.” She sends him a pointed look before turning away and rummaging around his sink, making it a point to show how she’s not looking at him. 

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you,” he mumbles. Not his best joke, but still, it gets a genuine snort out of Beverly. 

“Yeah Richie, absolutely _gagging_ for it. Just like you will be in a second, open up,” Beverly retorts. Richie is confused and a bit startled by her words until she places a toothbrush coated in toothpaste in his mouth. 

“I don’t gag Marsh. Maybe Haystack should have gotten with me instead,” he says. The words come out jumbled around the toothbrush. 

“I guess I’ll just have to fight you for him, then,” she smiles. Beverly’s smile feels more real than it had been when he first saw her. Gone is that gentle smile, the one that was afraid to be too loud in case she hurt him. Her teeth, slightly yellow with age, are on full display, complementing the joyous look in her eyes beautifully. Richie forgot how good it can feel to make his friends smile like this. Even if he knows that it wasn’t necessarily the joke that caused it, but instead the fact that he was now joking at all. 

“Enough talk about trying to steal my man, Rich,” Beverly chides. She reaches out to drain the tub, causing Richie to make a sad whimper in protest. “None of that, come you gotta get up and rinse yourself off.” She stands up, returning the removable showerhead to its spot before closing the shower curtain. “Now turn that water on and brush your teeth, while you’re at it. If you stay in the bath any longer you’re gonna prune up, and I may love you but not enough to deal with your weird prune fingers on my skin.” Richie can hear her shutter dramatically and feels the urge to reach out and caress her skin with his fingertips that are definitely already pruned. Before his hand can reach out of the curtain however, a voice in his head shuts him down. 

_Don’t push her. Do you really want her to be so disgusted with you that she leaves? She already put up with so much, don’t push it._

He does what she tells him too, taking his glasses off and setting them on the toilet lid next to the tub before turning the water on and brushing his teeth and spitting it onto the floor. Honestly, it feels weird. He’d never brushed his teeth in the shower before. It wasn’t a thing he was ever _aware_ he could do. Maybe if he had been, he would have been a bit more diligent about cleaning his teeth. He’d never really been good about brushing his teeth every day, dentist father be damned. As it stands now though, he can revel in the feeling of having clean teeth for the first time in god knows how long. He hadn’t realized how gross the feeling of fuzzy teeth was until he’s running his tongue over smooth bone. _Are teeth actually bones?_ He can hear a rant inside his head. One about the importance of proper oral care, and how _No, Richie teeth aren’t bones. I don’t care if your dad is a dentist, they aren’t bone!_

He shuts those thoughts down before they can go any further. 

“You think you can get dressed by yourself?” he hears her ask. Beverly sounds a bit further away as if she’s speaking to him from his room and not from the bathroom. She probably is. 

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, I think I got it, Bev. Thanks,” Richie replies. He shuts off the water and opens the curtain, seeing the shapeless blob that he assumes is a fresh towel hanging on the rack. One that hadn’t been there before. He reaches for it, drying himself as fast as he can so that Beverly won't walk by the open door and get a peek at him. Sure, she’d been in the bathroom the whole time he was in the bath, but then he’d felt at least a little protected by the clear water. 

He puts his glasses on and waits for them to de-fog before reaching for the pile of clothes on the toilet. He frowns when the first item he comes into contact with is a pair of jeans. They’re definitely old and worn, the most comfortable pair he owns, but he would prefer sweats. As it is, the thought of wearing jeans feels like _dressing up._ He pulls on the clean pair of boxer-briefs Beverly had picked for him, marveling at the pattern. They’re yellow with little pineapples covering them, and he’d be lying if he said the wacky pattern didn’t make a small smile form on his face. Next is the jeans. He wants to walk out and grab maybe a pair of sweats, but he can hear Beverly still shuffling around his room and something tells him that she wouldn’t let him get away with it. 

By the time he gets to the next two pieces of clothing, however, he frowns. He picks up both of them, studying them for quite a long time. 

“The shirt’s one of mine. It’s an old shirt I got from a concert I went to in my 20s. It’s a little big on me. They didn’t have any left in my size so it should fit you. I think the only reason I went was because the groups playing reminded me of you. I couldn’t bear the thought of getting rid of it. Though, I didn’t know that at the time.” Beverly explains. She is in the bathroom again, and Richie nearly applauds himself for not flinching at her voice this time. “The cardigan is Ben’s. He doesn’t look like the type, but that man has _so_ many cardigans.” 

“Well, he did confess his love to you through a poem. I think that gives Haystack a free pass to dress like an English professor from time to time,” Richie jokes, pulling on the t-shirt. It’s looser than he expects it to be, though it does stretch a little around his shoulders. that’s probably to be expected though. He doesn’t, however, put on the cardigan. Although it’s Ben’s, Richie is struck with brief flashes of Eddie. He can’t help but imagine Eddie wearing this exact thing. He wasn’t able to get much of a feel for adult Eddie’s style preferences, but a neat tan cardigan that looked more stylish than it does warm and comfortable sounds about right up his alley. Beverly notices his staring and takes the garment from his hands, opening it up and putting it on him. As much as this gesture makes him feel loved, it reminds him a bit too much of winters in Derry, when his mom would bundle him up. He’s not sure if that’s a pleasant memory or not. 

The pain is back, but when Richie’s struck with a warm inviting scent, it makes it just a little easier to deal with. Richie can’t say for sure that he knew what Ben smelled like before now. He hadn’t really had the time to sniff him when they were in Derry, and if he had, they had all been tramping around in the sewers for half of their time there so he can’t imagine either of them would have smelled great. But this cardigan smells good. Like some sort of expensive cologne. He’s not exactly sure how he would describe it, but it smells like Ben, or what he would have expected him to smell like. 

Richie withers at Beverly’s stare, grabbing each side of the cardigan and to wrap himself in it and hide his body, hoping to get another whiff. Beverly doesn’t say anything to him about it, but he still finds himself blushing at her knowing smile. 

“You give me a soft t-shirt and a comfortable cardigan but you can’t even let me wear sweats or _anything_ more comfortable than jeans? I mean, you’re already letting me borrow your clothes, why not throw in a pair of leggings or whatever you girls wear. These things are itchy,” he complains. 

“And have you stretch out my precious leggings? No thanks, Trashmouth, those things are more expensive than you think. Besides, jeans make you feel like a real person. If you’re wearing sweats you’re going to want to laze around the house all day, but if you’re wearing _real_ clothes, then you’re going to feel a bit more productive,” she shrugs, reaching around him to pick up his discarded towel. He just looks at her, doing his best to send her a confused look before she forcibly grabs his head and brings it down, enough that she can towel dry his hair. Richie isn’t sure how to feel about this gesture either. It feels affectionate, but a little too close to _motherly_ for his taste. He hadn’t experienced this since he was a child, and his mom admonished him for never properly drying his hair. He _should_ feel nostalgic or happy, but mostly he just feels useless. 

Richie feels like no time at all and all the time in the world has passed simultaneously while Beverly dries his hair. Like all other things, it ends too soon, but Beverly is already throwing down the towel and walking out of the room and beckoning for him to follow. Without the distraction of nostalgia, he thinks that maybe the jeans do make him feel a bit more.. _human_. Beverly is right. Sweats and shorts may be comfortable, but that’s what he had been wearing for the past couple of weeks. They made him want to lay in bed and never get up. But the thought of laying in bed now, with these jeans that would surely leave marks in the skin around his thighs, is unpleasant at best. He knows that she’s right, but he isn’t going to give her that. Instead, he just follows her downstairs, grumbling all the way. 

Seeing Beverly and cleaning himself has given Richie a bit of a boost in energy. He finds that even though he feels dizzy and weak, walking down the stairs feels easier now than it has in months. What once felt like a looming and dark house was starting to feel bright. He feels a bit more like a person now, Beverly was right, but with it comes the exhaustion. He can’t help but wonder what Beverly has in store for him. He’s wearing nice clothes, will she make him leave the house? Help her clean? Eat? He’s not sure, but just the thought of needing to do anything makes him want to crawl back into bed. Yet, she had obviously done something right, because for once Richie finds himself moving forward instead of turning. 

Richie’s stomach notices the smell before his brain does, grumbling loudly as he stumbles his way into the kitchen. He’s left with only a moment of confusion until he and Beverly enter the kitchen, which holds a painfully domestic Ben in a “Kiss the Cook” apron, making what Richie assumes to be breakfast. He’s not actually sure if it is breakfast or not. He doesn’t know what time it is. There’s only a small window in the kitchen, and the sun only shines through in the evenings, so he can’t try to figure it out by the sun's position in the sky. It smells like eggs, though. 

Once they enter, Beverly walks around Ben and places a small peck on his cheek before reaching for the now full dishwasher and grabbing two clean glasses. She fills each of them with filtered water from the recently filled Britta in the fridge and hands one to Richie. Huh, Richie doesn’t remember ever refilling the Britta _or_ starting the dishwasher. Ben looks to Richie for the first time, grimacing slightly at just how gaunt and sickly Richie just _knows_ he looks before quickly covering it up. In response, Richie gathers the cardigan around his body again, like he’s trying to hide it, and Ben shoots him a sheepish look as if to say he’s sorry.

“Hey, Richie. I’m making lunch. Didn’t know what you liked but I figured the best way to start the day is with some breakfast. I wasn’t sure how you like your eggs but you seem like scrambled with a lot of cheese kinda guy. I mean, who can say no to sausage, eggs, and pancakes?” Ben asks. 

Richie can. He knows that, realistically, he _could_ say no. Very easily in fact. Breakfast had never been his favorite meal, and scrambled eggs doesn’t sound too appealing right now. His stomach, however, doesn’t seem to agree with Richie, growling again, equally as loud as last time. He probably should eat, even if he doesn’t want to. From Ben’s excited rambling Richie figures that it’s important to Ben that he at least try some of his cooking. 

When Richie peaks around Ben, he’s surprised and confused at the sheer amount of food. He’s sure he probably has the ingredients to make pancakes from scratch somewhere, but sausage and eggs? His fridge has been nearly empty for weeks, and he knows that neither of those were in there. But, if they had started the dishwasher for him, it makes sense that they’d also gone grocery shopping for him? From his same vantage point around Ben, Richie notes his previously empty fruit bowl is now filled with a few more bananas and apples, and his spice rack on the counter is clear of all the expired bottles and filled with new ones. The only reason he can tell they’re new is from the dust missing on top. The guilt starts eating at Richie again at the thought of Ben and Beverly doing his shopping for him. It’s not about the money, (he’s sure they have a combined (and probably individual) net worth that’s way higher than his own.) but they had already gone out of their way to fly from Ben’s home in Nebraska to LA to visit him. Beverly had gone through all the steps of wading through his trash-filled room and helping him into a bath. Ben had cooked a meal _from scratch_ for him. He’d only been awake for about an hour, and they had already done all this. For him. And what had he done for them? Ignore the group chat for the past 3 days? Imagine them dying brutally because he had no idea how to process his anger? Cry? 

_Pathetic. You don’t deserve them, Richie. You don’t deserve the food on your plate or the clothes on your body. You deserve to rot in that bed of yours, aching and alone. Like you were always meant to be._

“Rich?” Beverly asks, her voice still soft and worried in the same slightly comforting way it had been in his room. He had been so consumed in his own spiral of self-pity that he hadn’t noticed Ben finishing breakfast and plating the food, nor had he noticed both Beverly and Ben sitting at his breakfast bar. He only just now notices that they’re sat across from a plate piled high with more food than either of their own plates, clearly meant for Richie. He hadn’t even touched his glass of water. 

“Yeah. Right,” he mutters, sitting down at the stool and picking up his fork. At least Ben was right, he did like scrambled eggs with a little extra cheese. Though he’d always been more of a sunny side up kinda guy. Not that he’s going to tell Ben that. He pokes at the food, wondering where the hell he’s supposed to start when the plate is so piled high that he can’t even see the bottom. 

“You don’t have to eat it all. I just thought that you might be hungry,” Ben tells him in between mouthfuls of food, momentarily forgetting that it’s not proper etiquette to smile that wide when there’s food behind your teeth. There’s a bit of cheese stuck to his bottom lip, but Beverly wipes it off for him. Richie wants nothing more than to run far away from this domestic display. 

In an attempt to satisfy both of his friends, he cautiously stabs at a piece of pancake, conveniently cut up for him into little bites, and puts it in his mouth. He can barely even taste it, despite the generous helping of syrup poured on top. He’s sure that it has nothing to do with Ben’s cooking abilities, but instead how Richie’s mind can barely even focus on the food, swirling with guilty depressed thoughts. 

_They’re doing all this for you and you can’t even appreciate it. You can’t even be happy for them. They should have left you down there in the cistern._

_It should have been you._

Beverly opens her mouth as if to say something. Richie swallows his food. 

“Why are you here?” He doesn’t mean for it to come out sounding so accusatory. Beverly doesn't flinch, as if she were expecting it, but Ben clearly doesn’t have the same acting abilities as his partner because he isn’t able to hide the hurt. Richie thinks about explaining himself. Clarifying what he meant. Telling them that he appreciates it, but he’s confused. His mouth only opens to shovel in more tasteless food. 

“We were worried.” 

Ah. There it is. At least Beverly isn’t beating around the bush. He can respect that. 

“You haven’t been talking to any of us lately. And even when you do, you don’t really talk about _how_ you’re doing,” she explains, but Richie still doesn’t really get it. 

“I guess, yeah. But that’s not really a good reason to drop everything and fly here.” It’s more a question than it is a statement. Sure he’d been distant, but maybe he’s just a dry texter for all they know. Maybe he’s just really bad at remembering to text back. He’s not, but he’s only had them back for a few months— months in which his idea of normal has been totally flipped. They don’t know much about him at all. Not anymore. 

“Bill came over to check on you the other day.” Richie’s head snaps up at that, no longer pushing around bits of food on his plate, intent on ignoring the knowing eyes of his friends. It was Ben who spoke. 

“When? I don’t remember that. I haven’t seen Bill in…” He trails off, trying to think of that last time he saw Bill. He knows he has... some time post-Derry. He can’t remember when. That thought isn’t as scary as it should be. “Ages.”

“He said he used the spare key. House was a bit of a mess. You barely had any food in here, and when he went to check on you in your room…” Beverly finishes the explanation for Ben. She doesn’t need to explain to Richie what Bill saw when he walked into Richie’s room, but Richie still feels that same shame. He can’t meet their eyes, staring intently at his eggs instead. Maybe if he tries hard enough, he can find a face in them. He used to do that a lot when he was younger, find faces in things. He and Stan would— 

“If he was here, why didn’t he say anything?” Richie begs. He hates how small his voice feels when he does. It’s as close as he’ll ever get to crying for help. It hurts, knowing that Bill could see him like this and just walk away. “Why didn’t he do anything?” 

“He did,” Ben replies. “He called us. Mike too. We were all kind of upset. He should have stayed with you.” Ben doesn’t sound angry, but he does sound upset at the fact that Bill left. “ _He should have.”_

Richie takes a sip of his water. Whether it’s to avoid speaking or hide whatever emotion is on his face, he isn’t sure.

“He called us and told us what was going on, which— I’ll admit, probably was the right thing to do. But I don’t like how he left you alone like that, man. He said you needed all of us. More than just him. But he still could have stayed,” Ben continues. 

Richie agrees with Ben. He’s not sure how he would have reacted to Bill showing up. He can’t imagine it would have been good though. Beverly coming into his room and helping him was one thing, but he’d always been so worried about Bill’s opinion of him. Bill always felt sort of unreachable to him. Maybe he would have yelled like he’d been wanting to ever since Derry. Like he did as a kid. Maybe he would have been resistant. Near unresponsive to Bill. So many maybes, but Richie still wishes that Bill had stayed with him. 

“When was this?” 

“Yesterday.” 

Okay. He can live with that. 

“He shouldn’t have left you, Hun. We can’t change that, I’m sorry. But we’re here now. We’re here and we’re going to help you,” Beverly consols. 

“You don’t have to.” Richie doesn’t necessarily believe what he’s saying, but it’s easier to deny the help than live with the guilt of accepting it. “Things suck right now, but I’ll be fine.” 

“Will you though? Because Richie, you’ve been like this for months. I don’t have to be here to see that. You’re not okay, and we’re all worried about you. This isn’t the kind of thing you just get over,” Ben chimes in. Richie bristles, shoving more food in his mouth so he doesn’t need to reply. He’s sure that if he did, he wouldn’t like what would come out of his mouth. 

_You did. You all did. You all seemed to get over it real fucking fast. How can you be okay after everything that happened when I feel like I’m barely keeping my head above the fucking water._

“You need help, Rich,” Ben says, “Losers stick together. We care about you, and we want to help you.” Richie hates how they sound like a broken record. All baseless platitudes to make him feel better. It’s not really working. 

“Thanks.” There’s no emotion behind it. He’s not even really sure he means it. He still doesn’t really believe he needs help. Things will get better eventually. That’s what they always say, right? It gets better? 

He just has to wait until then. 

“Besides.” Beverly’s voice is much lighter this time. Gone is that maternal seriousness. “Think of this as practice for me and Ben. If we ever decide to have kids, we’ll know what it’s like to take care of one.” 

Richie stops, his forkful of pancakes frozen midair. 

It’s a joke, Richie knows it is, but he can’t help the alarm bells that ring in his mind, his vision flashing red. He looks down at his plate, full of pre-cut up food, too syrupy pancakes, and cheesy eggs. A child's meal. He thinks of Beverly washing his hair and picking out his clothes. He thinks of that warm, soft voice Beverly has been using this whole time, one that isn’t wholly her own. He realizes now why he reacted so kindly to it. It was the voice of his mom. The whole time, it was the voice of his mom he was reacting too, not of his friend. His fork clatters onto the plate as tears fill his vision. He looks up at both Beverly and Ben, whose smiles quickly wipe off their faces when they see the hurt glare Richie shoots their way. 

“I’m not some kid that you need to take care of. I’m a fucking grown man, I don’t need you to… to raise me! I don’t need your help,” he spits. He looks back down to his plate, wanting to angrily stab at his food and fill his mouth before he can say anymore, still hungry but now disgusted at the thought of eating the kiddie food Ben had made for him. He scoffs, picking up his fork and touching the only thing on the plate that doesn’t remind him of his friends’ infantilization. He doesn’t bother to cut the sausage link into smaller bites, just stabs it in the middle and brings it up to his mouth to bite off an end. 

“Richie you know that’s not what I meant. I was just-”

“Stop,” he interrupts her. She’s clearly upset. He knows she feels bad about what she said, and he’s sure that she’s not doing all of this on purpose. He knows that she didn’t want to hurt him. 

But she did. 

“I don’t want to hear it just… stop.” 

Luckily for him, she does. Ben doesn’t say a word either, but when Beverly looks down at her plate to pick at it in the same way Richie had before, he continues to stare at Richie. He can’t see Ben’s stare from where he’s looking at his food, but he can feel it. Richie doesn't give him the pleasure of looking back. He continues to shovel food into his mouth angrily, too hungry to stop eating altogether. With each mouthful of food, his movements get gradually more jerky and lethargic. All three continue to eat on in silence. He knows that one of them is bound to say something soon, probably to try and apologize. He’s not sure he wants to hear it, but he dreads the moment either of them speak up because he’s not sure he’ll have the courage to shut them down again. As much as he doesn’t want to listen to what they have to say right now, he knows he will. He just wants to sit and be angry for a bit longer. Anger is all he knows anymore. It’s a comfort. Better than the alternative. 

Soon, he’s eating not because he’s hungry but because it’s something to do. As much as he doesn’t want to be here right now, with this tense atmosphere, he can’t bring himself to leave. He doesn’t want to leave his mouth empty, for the fear that either Ben or Beverly will take that as a sign of wanting to talk. He’s only gotten through about half of the food on his plate, and he’s starting to feel a bit sick. Normally, this would have been an easy portion for him, but at this point, he’s pretty sure his stomach has shrunk, so used to barely eating anything. 

He’s saved from eating any more or talking when the doorbell rings. It makes him flinch, and he can see in his peripheral that Ben and Beverly both flinch as well. Good. 

All three stare at each other for what is only a few moments, but feels like a lifetime, before Beverly begins to stand up, intent on answering the door. Richie simply looks back down at his plate, hearing Bill and Mike walk in before Beverly can even make her way past Ben and out of the kitchen. Richie doesn’t want to look, but he can hear Bill pocketing his keys, one of which Richie knows is the spare key to his house that Bill’d badgered Steve for when they got back. Steve, Richie’s manager, was the only other person with a spare key to Richie’s house, and he still isn’t sure just how Bill managed to get a copy from him. 

Beverly, already standing, goes to greet Bill and Mike with hugs and warm smiles, and Richie can see out of the top of his vision that Ben does the same. Richie may still be upset with Ben and Beverly, but Mike and Bill haven’t done a thing to him. Well, Mike hasn’t. So he looks up, still feeling weird, uncomfortable, and tense from the conversation earlier, but trying not to let it show. He hadn’t been aware that Bill and Mike were coming as well. He thinks Ben might have mentioned it earlier, but he doesn’t remember. Richie doesn’t want to be ungrateful, really he is happy that they are all in the same place again, but the guilt is growing stronger. Still consuming him.

_So fucking pathetic that you can’t even take care of yourself. Your “friends” had to drop everything in their lives to get you to take a fucking bath. Mike spent so long in Derry, yet you’re taking away his vacation from him just by existing. Pathetic._

The thoughts only leave his mind when Mike makes his way around Ben and Beverly to come throw an arm over Richie’s shoulders. It’s kind of awkward since Richie’s still sitting, but he makes it work. Bill makes his way over after saying hi to Ben and Beverly, exchanging warm greetings and asking how Richie is doing as if he doesn’t already know. Richie just shrugs, not really wanting to answer that anyway. 

“We’re just about finished up with lunch, but if you two haven’t eaten anything I can throw something together for you?” Ben offers, getting up to take care of both his and Beverly’s now empty plates. 

“Mike and I stopped and grabbed something on the way here, so we’re fine. We figured you would have been done with lunch around now anyway,” Bill says. Despite declining to eat with them, Bill still takes the chair next to Richie’s at the breakfast bar, sitting close enough that their knees are pressed together. The place where their bodies make contact tingles, and it sends a warmth throughout his whole body. He doesn’t know whether to move away or press closer. 

“If you’re sure,” Ben says through a tense smile, walking back towards the group after having taken care of the plates. 

“So…” Richie starts. Beverly and Mike immediately stop their conversation mid-word, and Richie wants to cringe at how quickly they shift their attention to him. He’s got all of their eyes on him. They probably think it’s comforting, but Richie just feels unnerved. He looks at his lap. “You’re all here.” It’s a question, not the statement he phrased it as. He can feel Bill tense up from where their knees are still touching. 

“Yeah,” Bill responds, not explaining any further. It’s kind of infuriating. 

“Bill picked Ben and I up at the airport this morning. We were going to wait for Mike, but we thought it would be better to get here as soon as possible.”

_Didn’t want poor pathetic Richie to do anything stupid, now did they? Didn’t want you to, oh what was it?_

_Take a bath?_

“I stopped for groceries before I picked them up, too. Ben said something about wanting to cook so I thought he should probably have stuff to do that with,” Bill laughs dryly. It’s his attempt at a joke, and Richie doesn’t really appreciate it. He knows his fridge was empty, he doesn’t need to be reminded of his faults. No one’s giving him the solid answer he was expecting. 

“You needed help, Rich,” Mike speaks, parroting what he’d heard from both Ben and Beverly earlier at breakfast. 

“So… what? You dropped everything to help me?” Richie asks. It sounds sarcastic. His tone is venomous as if he can’t believe it. As if he’s judging them. Richie thinks he just might be. 

“Yes.” Mike’s tone, in contrast, is final, his eyes boring into Richie’s soul. It’s like he’s _daring_ Richie to argue with him. 

“Believe it or not, Rich. We do care about you,” Bill says, resting his hand on Richie’s shoulder. 

“If it makes you feel any better,” Mike supplies, “It’s not just for you. I saw Ben and Bev a few weeks ago when I made my way through Nebraska but I haven’t seen you or Bill since Derry. Helping you out was just a really good excuse to get the gang back together.”

“Club,” Ben cuts in, laughing lightly. “We’re not a gang, we’re a club. The Losers' Club.” 

“Yeah!” Beverly cheers. 

“What was it you said, Rich? When we all finally showed up at the Jade and you hit the gong?” Bill asks, a bright smile on his face. This felt familiar. Richie wants to interject, to say that they _all_ hadn’t shown up, but he doesn’t want to ruin the excitement of his friends. He’s already wasting all his energy holding onto this anger and guilt. He doesn’t want to fight them on this, so he decides to just play along. 

“This meeting of The Losers’ Club has officially begun,” he repeats, forcing a smile on his face. Mike laughs heartily, slapping Richie on the back and only knocking his breath away a little bit. He can feel Bill squeezing his shoulder and shaking slightly from his own reserved laughter. 

“You said it, man,” Ben agrees. 

“And now that we’re all here, we should probably get started, huh?” Beverly suggests, still standing near the table. He’s confused, that much is clear, but none of them really stop to give him an explanation. He _knows_ that they’re here to help him, but what does that mean exactly? Richie feels his confusion grow as he watches Beverly and Mike leave, and fights down the pout that comes when Bill stands up. Ben had already started making his way towards the kitchen sink when Bill pulls Richie’s head in and kisses him on the forehead. 

“It’s good to see you, Rich,” he says, before making his way away from the breakfast bar as well. 

_He would have made a really good big brother,_ the thought hits him out of nowhere and Richie finds himself tearing up. 

For Georgie, who never got to experience this kind of adult brotherly affection. For himself, who had been missing out on this for the past 27 years. 

For Eddie and Stan, who died without their reminder. 

For the first time since waking up to Beverly this morning, Richie is left completely alone, sitting at the table wondering what he should do. His friends left him, and he struggles to keep away the swirling thoughts of abandonment. 

_They left you because they can’t stand to be around you. You’re useless to them. You’d just get in their way, with your stupid jokes and your depressing attitude._

He knows they didn’t mean to leave him alone. They’re just doing what they think best, they’re trying to help him. 

_Useless. You’re pathetic and useless. What kind of grown man needs his friends to do everything for him?_

Beverly, Bill, and Mike have gone off somewhere else and Ben has resumed his place in the kitchen, washing all of the dishes except Richie’s plate, which is still in front of him. Richie stays silent for quite a long time consumed in his thoughts, sitting alone at the breakfast bar, with Ben a few feet in front of him. Beverly was right earlier. 

_You’re acting like a child, Richie. Of course they’re going to treat you like one._

He couldn’t even get his own shit together enough to live like a normal adult human. It fucking hurts, knowing that at 40 years old he still doesn't know how to take care of himself. 

Before he realizes it, he’s up and out of his chair, scraping his half-full plate into the trash and setting it on the counter next to all the other unwashed dishes. Richie feels the same way now as he did when he was a child, coming in to bring more dirty dishes for his increasingly exasperated mom who was washing them. Except, instead of huffing and criticizing Richie for just giving him more work to do, Ben smiles up at him appreciatively before going back to preparing the dirty dishes for the dishwasher. 

Richie stays standing next to him, idle in front of the open dishwasher, watching as it slowly fills up. Ben is freakishly efficient at cleaning these dishes, in a way that Richie can imagine Eddie-

No. 

With a sigh and shaky hands, Richie reaches up to grab the dish towel slung across Ben’s wide shoulder. He wants to help, he really does, but as he stares at the increasingly large pile of clean dishes that need to be cleared from the dishwasher, he begins to feel overwhelmed. There are so many plates and cups that he doesn’t even know where to start. How did he even manage to dirty this many dishes when he hasn’t been eating? Which cabinet do they even go in? Richie can’t remember. 

He doesn’t have to though, because soon Ben is pulling the dishrag out of his hands with another placating smile before picking up a glass he had just rinsed. 

“Can you tell me where all of this stuff goes? I didn’t get a chance to look through your cabinets before I started lunch.”

Ben is looking at Richie expectantly, so Richie looks at the glasses in his hand and tries to take a moment to remember where those go. He feels stupid in those few seconds. He’s lived in this house for years, never bothering to rearrange things, but for those few seconds, he genuinely doesn’t know the answer. But, his arm raises up and points to a cabinet just above Ben’s head. Ben smiles at him before speaking. 

“Muscle memory is one hell of a thing. If you asked me where my dishes went in my house I’d have no damn clue what to tell you. I could grab you one though,” Ben laughs, opening the cabinet and putting the glass in it. Richie freezes once his eyes travel up one more shelf, and he prays that Ben won't see what Richie does. 

By the way that Ben stiffens, it’s clear that he does. 

Even if Ben hadn’t known about Richie’s previous problem with alcohol, which he highly doubts, he would probably be worried at the sheer _amount_ of alcohol in this cabinet. That’s not the most worrying part, however. No, that title belongs to the even larger amount of _empty_ alcohol bottles in the cabinet. Sure, maybe he could try explaining that he’s a celebrity who is used to entertaining parties, but they all know he hasn’t been entertaining anyone lately. He could say that they’re old, and he hasn’t touched them, but he’s not sure if he’ll get away with that either. To be fair, he really hasn’t been drinking as much lately. No energy to get out of bed to get the alcohol mixed with the fact that he tends to get weepy a few drinks in has caused him to stop. He had alcohol and drug problems in his past, but that had always been because he was looking to party. He was sad and depressed even then, but that wasn’t what pushed him to it. Drugs and alcohol had always made him feel _alive,_ in a way he desperately doesn't want to feel anymore. 

He can’t really explain that to Ben though. Wouldn’t even know where to start. 

“I… Rich.” Ben sighs, sounding defeated. He’s still not facing Richie, so he at least finds some comfort in the fact that Ben can’t see him flinch. “You know we’re going to have to do something about this, right? We can’t just leave all this here with you. It’s not good for you, man.” 

He feels helpless and terrified of what Ben might do or say to him if he tries to fight him on that. He knows that Ben is a good guy, and would never hurt him, but is that really true? How much does he _actually_ know Ben? After all, Beverly does seem to have a type ( _he knows that’s not fair. He does, but he just can’t help it. He’s angry, and he’s ready to drag whoever he can down with him._ ) 

Richie wants to scream. He wants to yell and lash out and tell Ben that it’s none of his business. He wants to drink now more than he has in the past month and he wants to smash a bottle over Ben’s head. He wants to get angry so badly, to be able to find a reason to hate Ben for taking away what Richie has always felt like was his plan B. But he can't. He wants to so badly, he can see it in his mind. He can feel the way the bottle would knock against Ben’s skull, not breaking because it would take a lot more force than that to break a Jack Daniels bottle. He can feel the way the heavy _thud_ would thrum through his fingers and his entire body. He can smell the blood and he relishes in the limp body of his fantasies. After all, Richie knows what it's like to kill someone. 

But, he doesn’t _really_ want to do all this. It’s one of those moments where he thinks about things that make him want to throw up from guilt. He doesn’t hate Ben, he doesn’t want Ben to get hurt, and he especially does not want to be the one to _hurt_ Ben. He’s at war with his own mind and it _hurts._ It hurts so goddamn bad and he doesn’t know what to do with it. So, with a considerable effort and slight tears in his eyes, Richie just bows his head in shame. He nods slightly, but he isn’t sure if Ben is looking at him and notices. 

Ben doesn’t apologize, but he also doesn’t make a reach for any of the bottles. He simply closes that cabinet up and continues on with his dishwashing journey. Richie notices now that he hasn’t just been washing the lunch dishes, but all those that had piled up beforehand as well. He continues to stack dirty dishes in the free spots of the dishwasher, as Richie stands in front of it, useless. 

Offhandedly, Ben mentions that if Richie really wants to help he can look through the fridge and pantry and come up with ideas for meals that Ben can make him. It’s like the entire _thing_ with the alcohol didn’t just happen, and Richie wants to cry right then. Still, there is that familiar guilt, but it’s being diluted by the appreciation and love he feels for his friend. Here Ben is, just trying to help Richie _get better_ and all Richie can do is fantasize about how to hurt him. He feels like a giant asshole, and he hates himself for ever having any of those terrible thoughts. It’s hard, trying to figure out whether he loves Ben right now, for the help, or hates him, for the alcohol. He wants to feel angry. He wants to hang onto that and keep it close to his heart. But, it’s slowly being overcome by love, and Richie isn’t sure that it’s for the best. 

Richie steps back, watching as Ben’s back muscles flex through his shirt. He wants to hug Ben, it strikes him. He wants to bury his face into Ben’s chest and stay there for as long as he can, height logistics be damned. But he can’t. Ben’s busy, doing all of the work that Richie has been neglecting for months. So instead, Richie compromises with himself and takes a hesitant step forward, reaching around Ben’s torso and under his working arms to squeeze him tight. Ben lets out a simple “Oh,” before letting himself relax into the half embrace. Ben can’t really reciprocate with his hands busy, but he does lean his head back into Richie, and Richie thinks that’s good enough. If Richie had been properly hugged, he probably would have cried.

He takes a second to squeeze even harder before removing himself from Ben. He doesn’t _want_ to. He’s warm and comforting and not as squishy as he used to be, but that’s fine because Richie hasn’t really touched anyone in a while; he can still feel his skin tingling from where his body made contact with Ben’s. It’s overwhelming in the best way possible. 

As Ben continues on with his dishes, now humming lightly, Richie takes a minute to gather himself. He’s feeling so many emotions at once that it’s hard to do anything but stand there. Pain, guilt, anger, love, it all swarms his mind. The love is a welcome change from the steady pain and guilt that had been lonely in his brain for a while, but damn if it’s not confusing. And terrifying. Love leads to hurt. He would know. In an effort to distract himself Richie hops up onto the breakfast bar and opens his mouth, hoping that whatever comes out is useful. He’s always had a knack for being able to talk without thinking about his words first, even if all of his friends said it was more a curse than a blessing. 

“I hate onions,” is what comes out, and Richie stops for a minute to wonder why, of all things he could have said about his food preferences, that was it. He didn’t bother to say anything else, though. Slowly, Ben turns around to give him an incredulous look. 

“You hate onions?” It’s a dumb question, and Richie gives him a look that says exactly that. 

“Yeah, man. Did you not hear me? They taste weird and the aftertaste is so much worse. I can never get it out either. If I eat an onion that taste stays in my mouth for the rest of the day, no matter how many times I brush my teeth.” Richie shutters at the thought. 

“How can you hate onions, Richie? They’re in basically everything!” Ben exclaims. By now Ben is turning back to the dishes but his tone is still disbelieving. Richie feels more than a little judged, and it kinda hurts but he pushes those thoughts away. These thoughts he can successfully block out. The thought of Ben hating him for not liking onions is a little too irrational, even for him. 

“I just do.” He shrugs. 

“Okay, you have the taste buds of a child, noted. Anything else?” Ben is teasing, and Richie is still sort of uncomfortable with the comparison between him and a child. He knows it’s all in good fun, so he laughs along, but he’s still unsure. Is this Ben trying to lighten the mood and treat him like normal, without the kids gloves, or is this him still treating him like he needs to be babied? 

“Uhh, I like chicken? Like any way you can make it, chicken is good. Beef too, I guess. Not a huge fan of vegetables, but who is? I don’t know, I’ll kinda eat anything.” 

“Except onions,” Ben throws back. 

“Yeah,” Richie laughs. It’s not a real laugh, one of those conversational laughs that you throw in from time to time. He has a word for these kinds of laughs. The one-ha laughs. The kind you don’t want to hear when you’re up on stage doing a set. “Except onions.” 

The conversation lulls for a moment before voices start to fill the kitchen once more, but this time, it isn’t Ben or Richie who are speaking. The loud voices of Mike and Bill can be heard from the living room, but they’re still too far away to make out what they’re saying. From the volume and intensity of their voices, however, it sounds like they’re getting pretty intense. 

“Why don’t you go check on whatever they’re fighting about? Bill may be small, but he looks scrappy. You of all people should know.” Richie cringes. “I’m sure if whatever's going on in there gets physical, you won't have much of a living room left.” 

It’s a joke, he thinks. Maybe. Hopefully. He knows his house is a mess, but he’s not sure how happy he would be if Bill and Mike _actually_ destroy the living room. 

Richie allows himself to laugh at the image of smaller-than-Eddie Bill trying to fight oddly-jacked Mike, though, and hops off the counter, intent on making his way to the living room. He feels lighter than before, even if there is a nagging voice in the back of his mind telling him to save the alcohol. ( _It’s all you’re good for, Richie. Getting drunk and making mistakes. It’s who you are.)_ He doesn’t know if that will go away any time soon though. Before finally stepping out of the kitchen, Richie turns back to Ben one last time. 

“Hey, Ben?” 

Ben hums in response, looking up from the sink full of soapy water and to back towards Richie. 

“No Chinese food.” It could be a joke, but it isn’t. Nothing in Richie’s tone suggests that it’s a joke. He’s glad that Ben picks up on this too. 

“No Chinese food.” Ben nods, an equally serious look on his own face. He isn't sure that Ben would have made anything Chinese anyway. Other than being one of the whitest guys Richie knows (and he’s a comedian in Hollywood, he knows tons of those), what happened at the Jade of the Orient was a trauma they had all unfortunately shared, and Richie thinks that Ben is probably a bit traumatized from that too. 

As he finally makes his way out of the kitchen, Richie has kind of accepted the fact that his friends are all here to make positive changes in his life. He isn’t exactly sure what Bill and Mike are doing in the living room, but he has a few guesses. He’s sure the empty pizza boxes and empty alcohol bottles that used to make their residence in his living room had something to do with it. But, when he walks out of the kitchen and into the living room, he stops in his tracks. 

He was right about the missing trash, now piled into neat trash bags lining the wall. What he hadn’t expected, however, was to see the mess of furniture arranged haphazardly in the center of what once was his living room. Somehow, the walls now seem barer than before, with the large abstract art pieces no longer hanging on them but leaning against the trash bags on the floor, close enough that Richie can tell what Mike plans on doing with them. 

“Uh…” Richie’s quiet voice cuts through the arguing between Mike and Bill, who hadn’t even realized he was there until they heard him. There’s only a second of silence before the both of them lock eyes with him, then each other, and back on him before they start talking simultaneously. Almost like they’re children trying to get their parent to be a mediator. With them talking over each other like this, Richie can’t hear exactly what they're saying, just random words here and there that sound vaguely like furniture terms. The ones that are in English anyways. He’s sure he heard a few non-English words in there. He can't comprehend what they’re talking about, but he knows it sure isn’t an explanation for the mess of his living room. Richie can't help but think about how this looks like the opposite of whatever his friends were planning to do here. 

“Guys.” 

They both stop speaking immediately, and Richie is still sort of uncomfortable with this new power of his. He doesn’t like how closely everyone is paying attention to him. “One at a time, please? And uh, maybe start with what’s going on?” 

Both Mike and Bill look at each other for a second, as if to decide who gets to speak first. They seem to come to a nonverbal agreement and Richie can’t say he’s surprised when Bill starts speaking first. 

“Mike wants to _feng shui_ your living room.” 

Well, that explains the non-English word he heard earlier. One of them, at least. It takes him a second to remember what exactly that means, and when he does he wonders why exactly Bill sounded so disgusted when he said it. 

“Isn’t that that one Asian thing where you rearrange a room in a certain way for better vibes?” he asks, still not entirely positive he knows what that means. 

“Tell him you don’t need _feng shui,_ Richie. It’s not about the _vibes,_ it’s about functionality and how it luh-looks,” Bill says, with a withering glare pointed at Mike, not exactly answering his question. Bill has had plenty of opportunities to be intimidating in his life, but this moment is evidently not one of them. It seems Mike agrees because he's soon rolling his eyes and making his rebuttal. 

**“** Alright, Mr. I’ve-got-maids-to-do-everything.” Richie cracks a smile at what he assumes is supposed to be a scathing remark from Mike, a man who really doesn’t know what it means to be successful in LA if he thinks Bill has _maids._ Mike ignores the offended “ _Hey!”_ from Bill as he continues. “I have a lot more experience with this than you do. Feng shui is good for you. Having a living space that gives off _good vibes_ ,” he mocks Bill and Richie’s word choice, “can be really beneficial for your mental well being.”

Bill rolls his eyes and crosses his hands over his chest before replying. “How, Mike? It’s just fffffurniture.” He struggles to get the f sound out, but his stutter has been getting a lot better again. It doesn’t happen very often, only when he’s upset, though Richie would be lying if he said he doesn't miss the comfort that Bill’s stutters gave him. He doesn't like being forced to remember how they've all changed. 

“I spent years on my own, I had to do something to make me feel comfortable with where I was living. At least I could make myself feel better by changing things up now and then. And I’ll have you know, _feng shui_ helped a lot,” Mike refutes. Bill stays silent at this, a look of guilt crossing his face that Richie just knows is mirrored on his own. Mike, however, doesn't seem to notice how uncomfortable he made his friends feel at the mention of his years of solitude. Richie knows how he himself feels about leaving Mike like that, and he’d bet on Bill feeling nearly the same way. They both have that crushing guilt of leaving... of knowing that Mike was alone for so long only for them to leave him once more. Sure, they remembered this time, but after Niebolt they all seemed to get out of dodge at the earliest possible moment. 

“Of course you would, Mikey,” Richie jokingly sneers, to cut the tension. “I seem to recall you developing a thing for stealing things from other cultures.”

Mike splutters, trying in vain to defend himself. Richie can't hear him over Bill’s howling laughter. Everyone vaguely knows what Mike did with the Shokopiwah, but Bill was there to experience the full story, drugging and all. It doesn't take long for Mike to start laughing as well. Once he sees the smile on Richie’s face, he's giggling to himself and holding up Bill who's nearly doubled over. It's the sort of break in tension that they came to expect from Trashmouth, the kind that they had been sorely missing out on for the past couple of months. 

They all calm down fairly quickly and once they do, both Bill and Mike explain to Richie what they want the living room to look like. Honestly, he really doesn't care much. It wasn’t out of laziness that he never rearranged the furniture before. He obviously spends a lot of time in this area of the house, but he never had any sort of eye for design. (His wardrobe was a clear example of that.) He pretends to listen, each word going in one ear and out the other, as they explain exactly what they would do with the furniture. He stares at them with a face of practiced interest, cultivated from years of mind-numbing networking parties, knowing that in the end, he’ll have no idea who to pick. He might just eenie-meenie-miney-mo it. That is until he hears something that doesn't quite sit right with him. 

“Wait a minute,” he interrupts Mike. “You can’t put the TV there, man.” 

“And why not?” Mike sounds a little miffed that Richie would disagree. He isn't sure why, but Richie can tell that Mike is a little more invested in this than Bill is, despite Bill’s earlier fighting words. 

“Because, man, if you put the TV on that wall the sun is gonna shine on it and I won't be able to see shit,” Richie explains, pointing out how the window allows sunlight to shine through directly where Mike was planning on putting it. He seems to deflate, realizing that Richie is right; even if he wasn’t, it is Richie’s house after all, and Mike wouldn’t directly go against him. At least, Richie hopes that he wouldn’t. He doesn’t know how much help that would be after all. Bill, however, is loving it. He sends a smug smile towards Mike who sticks his tongue out in return. If Richie had the energy, he would have laughed at how childish his friends were acting. But something about it makes him feel terrible. Bill and Mike shouldn’t be the ones acting childish and bickering. That wasn’t how their group worked. That was supposed to be Richie and— 

“Honestly Mike, I don’t really care how you do this. Just don’t put the TV on that wall and _please_ don’t leave it looking like this. I know I’m a mess but even this is a bit much for me.” 

Mike smiles at him and Bill backs down. Richie's clearly giving Mike full control here, and Bill can respect that. 

“Now why don’t y’all get out of here so I can figure this out?” Mike's tone is polite, but Richie still feels like it's a rejection. He knows Mike didn’t mean it that way, but he can’t help the way his mind reacts. 

_He doesn’t want you here, Richie. You’re useless, he doesn’t need your help._

“Richie, you can come help me get your clothes and do your laundry. I’m sure there’s probably a lot,” Bill laughs, making his way towards the laundry room by the stairs. Richie doesn't really want to, but he can't say no to Bill. After all, being with one of his friends is better than wandering off to be alone. As much as he still feels like shit and wants to be alone, he knows that it would just bring back the bad thoughts again. Beverly helped him get the ball rolling this morning, giving him the energy to get up and start his day, but he’s sure if he stopped then there would be no getting back up. 

So he follows. 

He follows as Bill leads him into the laundry room, grabbing an empty basket and he follows as Bill begins to ascend the stairs. He knows where they’re headed, and he’s not happy about it. Richie dreads the idea of going back into his room, but more than that he dreads the idea of Bill going in instead. It was one thing to let Beverly see the state of things, but Richie had always been extra sensitive to what Bill thought of him. He’d always sought approval from their Great Leader. All of the Losers had. Well, except for that one time. Richie raises a hand to his face, cringing slightly at the painful memory.

Bill makes a move to go inside, laundry basket in hand. Richie can’t find the words to stop him, but it seems that reaching out and simply grabbing onto Bill’s shoulder does the trick. Richie isn’t sure what kind of expression is currently on his face, but Bill is able to read him well enough. With a sympathetic nod, he hands Richie the basket. 

“I’ll be in the laundry room, come find me when you get everything,” he says before turning around and heading back downstairs. The relief Richie feels is immense, and knowing he has such understanding friends gives him the push he needs to open the door. 

The room is much darker than he remembers it being. Even with the light on, there is a sort of malevolent energy about the place that makes Richie think of places he’d rather not return to, _again_. It’s dark and suffocating, and Richie doesn’t want to be in here longer than he needs to be. From weeks of practice, Richie is able to move across the cluttered mess in his room, without stepping on anything breakable or disgusting. He knows exactly which piles of clothes and which pieces of trash to step on, now that the floor is completely covered. Setting the basket on the bed, he takes a moment to just look around. Most of the mess is simply discarded clothes, and that really makes him feel better about himself. But his small trash can in the corner of his room is overflowing with various wrappers and tissues, his bed is surrounded by dishes and there is some sort of odor coming from his bed area. 

He tries to ignore the smell as he gets closer to the bed, digging through layers of discarded clothes, but it’s making his eyes water. He’s not sure if it’s from the potent odor or the shame. He’s probably gone a little bit nose blind from inhabiting this room so long, but it could realistically be a mix of both. Richie hadn’t even realized he had owned or worn this many clothes. Sure, he couldn’t remember the last time he had done laundry, but he sure as hell hasn’t been changing his clothes daily. 

Some items are better than others. He picks up shirts that, had they not been on the floor near his bed, he’d have probably thought that they were _good enough_ and thrown them back in his closet to be worn again. Others were bad. Worse than bad. There’s underwear lightly coated in some sort of crust near the crotch area, and t-shirts that are clearly a different color in the armpits and upper back area than they are everywhere else. And that’s not even counting the smell. It’s not just the smell of sweaty clothes, but it’s also that stale mildew smell that clothes get if they’re sitting in one place for too long. 

He’s made a sizable dent in the near-the-bed pile by the time he fills the basket. He’s honestly more than a little shocked to see the full basket. It felt like barely any time had passed at all, and he really doesn’t feel like he picked up that many clothes. He has unearthed a few spots of carpet, but compared to the amount still on the floor, he barely did anything. He hasn’t made a dent. This is the exact reason he’s been struggling so hard to start things. What’s the point if the things he does don’t actually make a difference? 

_Pathetic. Useless. Lazy. Waste of space._

The only thing that gets him up and out of the bedroom is the fact that Bill is waiting on him in the laundry room. He hauls the heavy-as-shit basket as best as he can, resting it on his hip and limping his way down the stairs. The laundry room is on the first floor, just near the stairs, which was another reason Richie just couldn't find the energy to do his own laundry. His washer and dryer are just too far from his room. But here he is, walking into it with a full basket and a lighter feeling in his heart, now that he can’t _see_ just how little this basket made a difference. 

Walking into the laundry room, Richie still doesn’t feel very verbal. As much as he wants to open his mouth and make a joke or ask Bill what he’s folding, he just can’t make it open and force the words to come out. More than anything, he wants to ask Bill, _what now? What do I do, Bill? Tell me what I’m supposed to do._

But his mouth just _won’t open_. 

“I’m just finishing up the sheets and stuff Bev put in the dryer earlier. Can you ssseperate those for me?” Bill asks, motioning towards the basket of clothes. Richie pretends not to notice the way Bill’s stutter causes him to stretch out the S sound. It’s almost as if Bill read Richie’s mind, answering his pleas for instruction, but Richie knows that’s just how Bill is. He’s always been good at leading them and divvying up tasks. The problem is, he’s not exactly sure how Bill wants him to separate the laundry. 

Clearly, the confusion on Richie’s face is obvious to Bill. “Wait, Rich. Do you not separate your clothes when you do laundry?” 

He knows that Bill doesn’t mean to sound patronizing, but Richie still feels like Bill is attacking him. No, he never really understood why he was supposed to separate his clothes. Of course, he knows that it is definitely something that people do, but it had always just seemed useless to him. His clothes seemed clean enough to him. Looking away from Bill and instead at his socked feet, he gives Bill a jerky shrug. 

“Ruh-rich…” Bill’s voice seems significantly less judgy than earlier, but Richie still can’t help how his mind spirals. 

_He thinks you’re stupid Rich. What kind of adult can’t take care of himself? Don’t even know how to separate the laundry. So fucking stupid, Eddie and Stan knew._

_It should have been you, Richie._

Richie won't meet his eyes. 

“Well, I guess it doesn’t matter that much anymore. I think modern detergent has been ffformulated in a way that doesn’t make colors bleed. Should still probably ssseparate out the whites. Just grab out all the white clothes and set them to the side for me?” 

Bill isn’t nearly as good at the “comforting yet convincing” voice as Beverly, but he does know how to make people do what he wants them to. Richie knows that Bill isn’t forcing him to do it. He’s sure that in Bill’s mind he’s just making a suggestion, but Richie only ever knew how to say no to Bill when it came to the others. He couldn’t deny a request like this from Bill. He doesn’t feel good about it, but he sits his ass on the floor and dumps out the basket all the same, ignoring the snort that comes from Bill as he turns around to finish folding what looks like a fitted sheet. Richie didn’t even know it was possible to fold one of those. 

Richie continues his task silently, mindlessly sorting out the whites from the colors. Really, it’s only a pile of socks and a few mostly-white t-shirts here and there, but by the time he’s finished, Bill has finished up what he was doing and moves on to grab some of the colored clothes and throw them in the dryer. Watching Bill do this, do Richie’s laundry for him, fills Richie with some sort of misplaced anger. He’s not sure where it came from or why _now_ it decided to come out, but it fuels him to say his first words to Bill since the living room. 

“You guys don’t need to do this, y’know? I’m a grown-ass fucking man, I don’t need a bunch of babysitters.” He knows the moment he says it that it’s totally unfair, but it seems like lately he has just as much control over his mouth as he does his mind (which is to say very little at all). Richie isn’t looking at Bill, instead at the dirty t-shirt, he has crumpled up in his fists. He knows that if he wasn’t holding the shirt, his fingernails would be digging painfully into his skin.

He knows it’s wrong, but he kinda wishes for that sort of grounding pain. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Richie sees Bill carefully set down the cup of laundry detergent on top of the full washer and face Richie. It takes a few moments before he speaks, and Richie isn’t sure if he was trying to choose his words or make sure they came out clearly and without that familiar stutter. 

“Don’t we, though?” His voice is measured and calm, talking slowly in a way that Richie knows helps Bill eliminate the stutter. Richie doesn’t respond, but he finds himself internally bristling at Bill’s question. 

“You know, I haven’t done my own dishes in years.” 

Richie’s head whips up at this, a look of confusion and wonder on his face. Had it been anyone other than Bill, he’d have assumed they were lying. It’s not that he thinks Bill is incompetent but… well, if any of his friends were the type to get by without doing their own chores it would have been Bill. Not counting himself, anyway, because Richie’s self-aware enough to know that even if he wasn’t in the middle of an episode he wouldn’t be doing his own shit anyway. 

“I hate doing dishes. I hate the way it makes my fingers feel pruh-pruney and Audra says that I can just use gloves but then I don’t know if I’m actually getting all the guh-guh-gunk off. We have a dishwasher but you can’t just put food covered plates in there. Audra’s been doing the dishes for, I think, as long as we’ve been together,” Bill says. He has gone back to filling the washing machine with detergent. He closes the door and starts the cycle before turning back to Richie who still sits pathetically in front of his socks pile. 

“I don’t even think Audra knows how to do her own laundry. She wasn’t exactly a child ssstar, but by the time she got her bruh-break, she was still living with her parents. She did live on her own before we met, but I really doh-don’t think she ever did her own laundry.” A smile overtakes his face, and Richie just knows he’s imagining some weird domestic heterosexual fantasy of Audra fucking up the laundry and Bill swooping in to save the day. He almost wants to gag. Or coo. He’s not sure. 

“It’s easier for us than it is for you, yuh-y’know. Audra and I, we’ve got each other, and I know that you know all the Losers are here for you but… we’re not ssstupid. Things are different for you. You’re living in this big house all by yourself. It’s gotta be pretty daunting, knowing that you’ve got all this ssstuff to do.”

Tears start to prickle Richie’s eyes, but he doesn’t give Bill any sort of satisfaction of knowing. He simply clutches the t-shirt tighter. Somehow, Richie knows that Bill is very aware of Richie’s silent tears. 

“Mike’s on his own,” he grumbles. 

“Yeah, and Mike is living out of a few suitcases right now. He’s ssseeing the world, doesn’t exactly need to stop and do the dishes or dust the guest bedroom.”

Richie stays silent. Bill sighs. 

“Here’s the thing Rich. I’ve got Audra. Buh-Ben and Bev have each other. And you? You’re by yourself but you’re _nuh-not_ alone. You’ve got us. Things are hard right now, we _guh-get that_ , so you can be damn sure we’re gonna be here to help you when you need it. Losers stick together.” 

“God damn it, Bill.” Richie nearly chokes on the words, trying to push down a sob. Bill stiffens up, afraid that he said something wrong. “Why do you always have to be so damn good at giving speeches? You’re so much better at this than I am and public speaking is literally _my job._ ” He’s complaining, but it’s clearly contrasted with the watery smile he shoots Bill’s way. 

Richie’s not miraculously better after one speech, and he definitely still feels guilty about making his friends come all this way just to do the chores he didn’t want to, but he is feeling a bit better. Sure, he’s always _known_ that the others had his back, but it's so much nicer to hear it out loud. It helps to know that the help they’re all giving them isn’t totally a pity party. He’s not the only one who doesn’t have all his shit together. Even if he is the worst-case-scenario. 

Richie kind of wants to ask for a hug, but Bill was never really as touchy-feely as Richie was, so he stays quiet. Bill takes this as his cue to continue with what he was doing. Now that the washer’s occupied, he doesn’t have much else to do. Richie watches as he picks up the basket from next to him and leaves the room. Richie knows exactly where he’s going, and he doesn’t stop him. Maybe that’s progress. Or maybe today has been so emotionally exhausting that he can’t find it in himself right now to care about what Bill thinks of his room. He waits until Bill leaves the room to get up from his spot on the floor and climb on top of the empty dryer. He feels less pathetic perched high on the dryer than he did sitting on the floor looking up at Bill.

Once again, Richie is alone with his thoughts. It’s not ideal, but he doesn’t know what else to do. He still has some things to say to Bill, and he’s not sure where else he’s going to go after this. He doesn’t want to bother Beverly anymore than he already has, and he knows he’ll just distract Ben. He can’t imagine he’d be very much use to Mike. 

He’s still sitting staring absently at the wall when Bill walks back into the room with a basket full of clothes. Richie opens his mouth, maybe to greet him or crack another joke, who knows. Sometimes his mouth opens without him thinking about it, and it doesn’t _usually_ burn him too bad. 

“Don’t write your book.” 

Richie has no idea what that came from. Well, he kind of does. He’s been thinking about it ever since Bill told them the news. But he didn’t mean to _say it._

“Uh…” Bill stands there, stunned. “W-which one?” 

Richie glares at him. Bill knows exactly which book Richie is talking about. 

“Bill.” His voice comes out a bit more pleading than he hoped it would sound, but it seems to have gotten the reaction he’d hoped for. Bill gently sets the basket down on the ground, not looking up from his shoes. Of what Richie can see of Bill’s face, he looks ashamed. 

“C’mon Rich. It’s a guh-good story,” Bill pleads. Richie doesn’t say anything in response, however. Bill continues to talk to fill the silence. “Listen, I-I don’t expect you t-to-to read it. I get it, I do. I-i-it -was hard for _all_ of us. But writing this, it’s guh-good for me Rich. I-it’s helping-”

“Stop.” Richie’s voice sounds strangled. He’s noticed just how pronounced Bill’s stutter has gotten and he’s not sure how to process that. “Just… stop. You don’t get it, man. I just— I just wanna move on. It fucking sucks. All of it. The forgetting. The phone call. Stan…” His voice cracks noticeably at that once, and Richie needs to take a minute to pause, Eddie’s name coming out of his mouth unprompted. The tears are flowing freely now and Richie starts trying to regulate his breath. 

“I just want it to be over. How am I supposed to do that when Bill Denbrough’s new #1 best seller is dedicated to the worst possible moments of my life? What am I gonna do when everyone inevitably complains about the ending, because I know you’re not gonna change it up and give us the happy ending we— _they_ deserve. What about when people realize we’re friends, and they start asking whether Richie or Robby or Dick or whoever I am in your stupid book, is based on me? Bill, I can’t do it. I can’t handle that. It’s our story man, and I just want to leave it in the past. You _owe_ me that.” 

“Rich…” Richie is fully sobbing now, snot and all, but Bill hasn’t moved from his position by the doorway. 

“I’m not going to stop writing it,” he says softly, which makes Richie cry even harder. “I-i don’t know if it will get published. And even if it does, that duh-doesn't mean it’s going to be-”

“Bill, _please.”_ Richie hates the desperation in his voice, but not even that can get Bill to change his mind. 

“I’m not gonna stop, Rich.” 

Richie’s shaking. He tries to hold down the sobs in his throat, and he just barely manages, but he can’t stop the tears that are streaming from his eyes. It’s hard to see through the tears, but he continues to search for _anything_ in Bill’s eyes that could make him feel better. He stares at Bill with trembling hands and a broken heart, seeing nothing but conviction in Bill’s eyes. He really isn’t going to stop. 

“Fine.” 

Richie stumbles off the dryer, furiously wiping away the tears with trembling fists as he shoves past Bill and out of the room. 

Richie hates how just one short conversation can destroy all of the day’s progress and set him back into a horrible mood again. He just cannot catch a fucking break. The second someone does something to make him start feeling better it’s like he’s being forcibly pulled back into that depressive state. As much as they’re helping him, they’re also hurting him. A lot. He hates them for it, with the part of his brain that still fantasizes about hurting them. He wishes they would have just left him lying in his bed. At least then his days were predictable. The constant pain was nowhere near as exhausting as the constant flux of emotions. But the other part of his brain, the one that is more _Richie_ than it is grief, loves them so much it's hard to blame them. None of them are professionals. Sure, they all have some sort of PTSD or are just generally fucked up from what happened, but it’s not the same. They know what works for them, and they’re trying their hardest. That’s all that matters, right? At least he has people to try now. 

_Not that you deserve them anyway, Richie. They wouldn’t have had to drop everything for Stan. They wouldn’t have had to do Eddie’s household chores. They could have been happy, Richie, and it’s all your fault. It should have been you._

Richie isn’t really in the mood to talk right now. Well, he hasn’t really been in that kind of mood all day, but he doesn’t know if he can listen to another lecture about how this is normal and he’s actually okay and everything will get better. So, he sits down at the bottom of the stairs and looks into his open floorplan living room, where he sees Mike on a repositioned couch going through a box of who knows what. Richie is 99% sure that the box Mike has didn’t originate from Richie’s house, and he’s not exactly sure how Mike managed to get that monster on the plane and in LA. 

Richie takes a minute to survey the living room. Before, the furniture had been much more spread out, looking like something out of a home magazine. It wasn’t put together to be useful so much as it was to look good. Richie hadn’t ever bothered changing it when he bought the fully-furnished house, because why would he? Surely the interior designer knew better than he did? But as he looks at the cramped way the sectional and recliners are pushed together, and the TV at an unsightly angle, Richie can’t help but _love_ his living room like this. There is so much more awkward space that needs to be filled in his frankly massive living room now, but in the center is what looks to be a cozy little setup. It’s cramped, yet homey. He can imagine all 5 of them sitting around this living room, cuddled up like they used to be in Bill’s basement during movie night. This living room is a place for friends to gather, and that brings a smile to Richie’s face. 

As Richie continues to scan the living room, Mike looks up and catches his eye. 

“Oh, hey Rich! I’ve got a box of old stuff from when we were kids, wanna come look?” Mike calls. His smile is warm and inviting and Richie almost wants to go, but the thought of purposefully bringing up memories that he knows would only cause him pain (because what are the chances of Eddie and Stan not being included in them?) isn’t something he wants to indulge in. Mike, who notices Richie’s hesitance, waves him off. “That’s fine. But you don’t have to sit in there y’know? You can come over here, get a feel for your new space. I could use some company.” 

Richie can do that. He can handle sitting in the living room and ignore the box of memories. If there’s anyone Richie thinks he would be capable of sitting in companionable silence with it’d be Mike. He cautiously makes his way to the couch Mike’s sitting on and curls up on the other end. He lays his head back against the rest, his curly hair mussing up and getting staticky as it makes contact with the soft blanket hanging over it. He reaches up to feel it, and can’t tell if this is one of his that Mike had found somewhere in the house or if Mike had brought it with him. It certainly doesn’t smell different, like it came from somewhere else, but he doesn’t recognize it. Mike doesn’t offer any answers however, he simply smiles at him before going back to what he was doing. 

The box next to him is large. It's a simple cardboard box that is too big to sit on his lap, so instead, it rests on the floor in front of the couch. From where Richie is, he can peek inside and see a few messy notebooks, some random knick-knacks, and a lot of scattered photos. He can’t really see what any of this stuff really is and Richie finds himself wondering why Mike brought it here and what plans to do with it. On the coffee table in front of him, sits a few empty picture frames and, oddly enough, a ball of twine and clothespins. However, Mike is too invested in his box to notice Richie’s curious stare, and Richie still isn't in the mood to say anything. 

Soon enough, Mike pulls random things out and sorts them into a pile. Every now and then he will tear a page out of a notebook and add it to one of the piles. One notebook, in particular, seems to be more interesting than the others. Richie keeps his eyes on Mike as he leans back to read whatever is on the pages, too engrossed in it to notice Richie’s creepy staring. 

At one point, Mike snorts loudly, which eventually turns into full-on belly laughter. Intrigued, Richie scoots closer to Mike, trying to get a sly look at whatever he's laughing at. Through his laughter induced tears Mike looks at Richie, who freezes from being caught in the act, and tilts the notebook towards him the same way he would have if they had been reading a comic together in the clubhouse as kids. 

“You remember these, man?” he asks. Richie just sees a bunch of different blocks of writing, in various different handwritings, covering the page. Other than the very few things actually written on the lines instead of haphazard across the page, it doesn't look like these were school notes. Richie shakes his head. 

“Oh, man. Back in school you, Eddie, Stan, Bill, and Ben,” Richie flinches at the mention of Stan and Eddie. Mike continues, “decided that you were all going to start passing notes in this notebook. You even made a schedule for who gets the book during which classes and who got to take the book home on which days. None of you ever really said why, but I always knew you did it to keep me in the loop. Every Friday one of you would come over and give me the notebook and I’d spend the whole weekend reading over it and adding in my own little notes here and there. I never did get to go to school with you guys, but you made such an effort to make me feel included.” 

Now that Mike's explaining it, he can sort of remember what he's talking about. He can remember bits and pieces of notes, but nothing substantial. He remembers taking home the notebook on his nights, agonizing over what to write in it to bring back and show the others. He thinks he used to make little playlists but he isn’t entirely sure. He doesn’t really remember specific conversations, but he does remember the notebook as a whole. He remembers how close it made him feel to the others. How happy he was that they got to do this for Mike, because he was right, they did do it for him. He remembers how even after reading whatever nerdy thing Stan or Ben wrote, he felt nothing but love in his heart for his friends. And he remembers wishing that there was one more name on the front page schedule and a distinctly feminine handwriting (other than Stan’s) covering the pages. But, Beverly had already left Derry and hadn’t returned any of their calls or letters. 

“Anyway, man. This page is uh… well, the day before I guess you had a bad day. One of the teachers yelled at you or something, I don’t know, the notes about it are pretty vague. But that night was Bill’s night to bring home the notebook and I guess he used that opportunity to cheer you up. I was reading through all of the notes from that day, and I remembered exactly what was on the next page. God, you wouldn’t shut up about it for so long.” Mike laughs, flipping the page over to show a giant drawing of a kid with wild hair. For the first time in a while, Richie bursts out laughing. This laughter is more than the chuckles or light laughter that each of the Losers had been able to draw out of him a few times that day. Richie is so overcome with deep, belly-laughter that he eventually ends up bent over with his head resting against Mike’s shaking shoulder. His hands clutch his stomach as if each burst of air is being punched out of him. Through watery eyes, Richie spares another glance at the photo. 

“Oh god…” he wheezes, “It’s Eddie Spaghetti!” 

Eddie Spaghetti is definitely the only way to describe the picture on the next page. Bill had drawn a shockingly accurate (for a 9th grader) portrait of Eddie, complete with a light dusting of pointillism freckles and that cute little angry face that Richie loved so much. The highlight of the drawing, however, was how instead of drawing Eddie’s hair neat and brown and combed like it usually was, Bill had drawn it as spaghetti. It was a little messy, and honestly, it looked more like scribbles than it did noodles, but it was clearly a lump of spaghetti with meatballs interspersed. God, Richie remembers this picture vividly. 

Like Mike, Richie doesn’t remember what terrible things lead up to this picture, and why Bill felt the need to draw it, but he does remember how it had cheered him up. How Bill had brought the book to Richie before their first class, as Richie and Eddie were scheduled to have it during their homeroom, with the explicit instructions to check his new entry in the notebook with Eddie. He’d wanted them to see it together. The only thing that kept Eddie from truly exploding after seeing it was the fact that they were in class and if Eddie got in trouble one more time his mom would flip. So instead of shouting over Richie’s raucous laughter, he stole the notebook from him and began to write a lengthy rant on the back of the page. Richie reaches out to where Mike is still holding the notebook and flips the drawing, seeing Eddie’s messy handwriting filling up not only the page but the margins as well, as if he went over his argument once more and added in extras points. His heart squeezes. 

“There were more notebooks. They kind of filled up pretty quickly with how much you would write to each other. I don’t remember if this is the first one or not, they were never really labeled, but I don’t have any of the others. I don’t know what happened to them, but you kept this one. It uh— This notebook means a lot to me. It got me through the darkest times. When I felt like I couldn’t get out of bed in the morning, or spend one more moment in Derry, I’d look at this notebook and remind myself of why I was doing it. I’d look at it and remember that I had friends out there who were counting on me. It was enough to make me get on with my life.” Mike smiles down at it. Richie knows that it's more than just nostalgia. Mike had lived with these memories his entire life. Richie doesn’t know what he would have done if he were in Mike’s place. To know that he had friends who loved him _this_ much, but was unable to be with them. For once, it’s not guilt that invades his mind. It’s just deep sorrow for everything Mike had gone through for them. Richie feels more empathetic right now than he has in years, and he knows that stems from the fact that he hasn’t _loved_ someone as much as he loves Mike in the years in between. 

“If I kept it, then why do you have it?” Richie asks. The part of his mind that stores jokes points out that Mike has a history with stealing important artifacts, but it's more than just that, though. Now that Richie thinks of it, he didn’t really bring many mementos from his childhood with him when he moved out of Derry. He’d always thought it was because he just wasn’t a very sentimental person. Because he hated his hometown and had nothing to remember. Now that he knows better, however, he can remember a Richie who was deeply sentimental. He knows he would have wanted to hang onto these things. So, why didn’t he? 

Mike’s smile turns sad. “You held onto a lot of things. I’d say most of the pictures and stuff that are in this box are from you…” Mike trails off, closing the notebook and setting it on the table in front of him with the other piles of pictures. 

“I don’t know if you remember this, but you were the last to leave.” Richie doesn’t remember that, actually. Not until just now, anyway. “It started with Bev, obviously. She promised to call and even gave us her Aunt’s address. But she never did call any of us, or write us back. Eventually, our letters to her started getting returned. Bill was heartbroken. Obviously we all know why she didn’t, now. Ben was next. He moved to Nebraska with his mom; it was really sudden. Eventually, you started to get scared. We’d talk about it a lot. You didn’t want anyone to forget, but... they did. That’s around the time you started hoarding this stuff. You’d make us all take pictures together, and you kept this notebook.

“Hell, you’d even sneak into Bill or Eddie or Stan’s rooms and start to steal their things. Little things that they wouldn’t notice were missing. Sentimental things. Then Bill moved, and so did Eddie. And then Stan was moving too and you were so desperate that you offered to help him pack. I ended up showing up too, and I caught you rummaging through his stuff while he wasn’t in the room. You were taking some of his photos, both of the birds he liked to photograph and of us as a group. That’s when you told me about not wanting to forget, and wanting proof of our friendship. I never did tell Stan.” 

Mike takes a moment to set down the notebook and pull out a photo that had previously been sitting in a pile on the table. He hands it to Richie, and Richie can see the two of them, 17 years old and smiling wide into the camera with the farm behind them. If he were to look closer, Richie would be able to see both the sadness and the fear in the eyes of his younger counterpart. 

“And then there were two. You spent your last year of high school alone, and god, you spent so much time at our place. Grandad actually put you to work sometimes.”

Both Mike and Richie chuckle at this. Richie can see with great clarity, all the times he tried and failed to help out around the farm. He was especially bad at everything that had to do with cleaning up after the animals and dealing with their poop. He remembers that eventually, they just stuck him on feeding duty because it was the one thing he couldn’t really mess up. Until he did, anyway. 

“The night before you left for college was hard. You’d already packed all of your things, and you came over with this giant box of stuff. It was all the stuff you spent your time collecting. We went through it all, kinda like we are now. I was shocked, man, you even had some of Bev’s things— pretty sure you stole those from Bill. You told me about your theory while we went through all this stuff. You told me that the others didn’t write or call back because they didn’t want to be our friends anymore, but because they _forgot._ You were so sure that you were right because you couldn’t imagine a world in which Eddie or Stan weren’t there for you. So I kinda just went along with it, even though I didn’t fully believe you at the time. You were so sure that I was gonna be able to leave this place too, so we buried the box. I thought that you should have taken it with you, to remember while you’re at college, but you were adamant that we’d all come back eventually. We made the oath, didn’t we? If it was inevitable that we'd forget, you wanted to make sure we all had something to make us remember when the time came.” 

“And you dug up the box when you realized I was right,” Richie says. There aren’t tears in his eyes, shockingly, but his voice is still thick from remembering each of the days his friends left; how he felt when it was down to just him and Mike. He remembers the pain of how his worst fear, of being forgotten and abandoned, had finally come true. 

“I dug it up when I decided to stay,” Mike corrects, softly, throwing an arm over Richie’s slumped shoulders. “It wasn’t just the notebook that helped me. This whole box got me through some hard times. Staying in Derry was rough, but looking at the notebook and these pictures and all this stuff reminded me that I was doing this for a reason. It reminded me that I had people out there, people who were going to need to remember one day. People that need me just as much as I need them.”

Tears do actually start falling this time, but it's different now. Richie _is_ sad, of course he is. He still feels guilty for leaving Mike there all on his own. He knows that Mike would tell him that it was his choice, but it still sucks. However, that’s not entirely why he's crying. Richie’s heart is just so fucking full that he can't help it. He thinks back to how much he resented Mike for calling them all back and he stomps on that thought as hard as he can. Mike needed them. He needed Richie, in the same way that Richie needs Mike right now. Richie cries because he loves Mike more than he thinks he could have ever loved any person outside of the Losers Club. He cries because, for the first time in 20 something years, Richie remembers what it feels like to have _friends_. 

Mike doesn’t quietly shush him in the same way that Bill does when he cries, or murmurs soothing things to him like Ben, or run his fingers through Richie’s hair like Beverly. He simply pulls him in a bit closer and lets Richie cry. He’s a comforting presence at Richie’s side, and once Richie lets it all out, he drags the box a bit closer to Richie and suggests that they continue looking through it. 

Going through the box takes longer than it should because they keep getting distracted. They frequently come across photos that spark memories in Richie, or things that he needs explanations for from Mike and take their time to reminisce. Neither of them mind, it's not like they have anywhere to be. Mike tells him about his sorting system on the table in front of him. One pile for things that he plans to hang up or display here in the living room, a smaller pile for stuff to be displayed in the bedroom, and the last pile for things to go back into the box. 

Richie starts to feel a bit better than he had all day. He looks through memories and finds himself smiling, even at the ones that make him think about Stan and Eddie. It doesn’t hurt to think about either of them, not right now, and he’s glad he has Mike back in his life again. It’s selfish, but he’s glad Mike stayed behind and glad that he called them all back. Richie just can’t believe how lucky he is to have friends like this in his life, again. 

After finally finishing sorting through the photos, Mike grabs the ball of twine and clothespins before turning to Richie and grinning. Richie doesn’t even need to ask to know what he’s thinking of doing. 

“Isn’t that a little too… college white girl, Mike? I swear I’ve seen this DIY on Pinterest,” Richie jokes, watching Mike cut strips of twine. To his credit, Mike doesn’t look fazed while he continues focusing on the task in front of him, replying to Richie’s comment without looking up.

“Isn’t your whole career centered around that white frat boy persona you’ve got going on?” 

Richie puts a hand over his chest in mock offense. “Oh I get it, trash the trashmouth! Maybe you should have been the comedian,” he cries. 

“Yeah? I am out of a job, maybe you could hire me as a ghostwriter,” Mike chides. 

“Hah… yeah.” Richie says, a lot less enthusiastic now. Just another reminder of how inadequate he is. Can’t even write his own jokes. He’s torn out of his self-loathing thoughts before they could go any further, however, by the loud _RIP!_ that breaks the silence of the living room. His heart stops when he looks towards Mike, to see him ripping out a page of the notebook they’d been talking about previously. 

“Dude!” 

It’s the Eddie Spaghetti page. Richie’s heart races, his nose tickling in that way that warns him about the tears that will start to prickle his eyes soon. It’s not shredded or anything; simply ripped out of the notebook. Mike doesn’t explain himself, only using a clothespin to clip it to a string, surrounded by other pictures. He grabs two ends of the full string and holds it up towards Richie to show him. 

“There’s no reason it needs to stay in the notebook. Not when you can have it here, hanging with the rest of the pictures,” he says. Richie still isn’t sure. He’s still getting over the shock of seeing one of his most precious memories nearly destroyed. If he thinks about it, he’s sure that he’ll enjoy being able to see it hanging on his wall rather than in the notebook he’s not sure he’ll ever have the guts to open again. 

“Sure man, but warn me next time. I thought you were gonna like, destroy it or something,” Richie says, softly, causing Mike to reach out and pat his shoulder. 

“I wouldn’t do that. That notebook means just as much to me as it does to you. But, it’s important for you to have reminders that we’re all here for you. That’s what got me through Derry, anyway. I know it’s a little cliche, and _yes,_ it is very college white girl, but I want you to have a reason to come out of your room every once in a while. I want you to be able to look up and remember that we’re all here for you. That _we love you_.” 

Richie starts tearing up, nearly sobbing as he chokes out a “ _Thanks, man.”_

Luckily, he’s saved from going down that emotional rabbit hole again by both Beverly and Bill reentering the living room, chatting animatedly to one another about their respective lives. He’s sure he hears both of them gushing about their significant others before they catch the teary-eyed look on Richie’s face rush to his side. Bill shoots a panicked look at Mike, whose hand has come to rest on Richie’s shoulder. 

“Richie, sweetie, what’s wrong?” Beverly asks, crouching down in front of the sofa where he’s sitting, reaching up to grab his face and examine his eyes as if she can see what caused the tears if she looks hard enough. Richie smiles allows a wobbly smile to overtake his face as a response. 

“Nothing. These are happy tears, I think. Blame Mike,” he sniffles. Beverly doesn’t look entirely mollified until Mike starts to laugh jovially. Richie can tell that both she and Bill aren’t entirely convinced that Richie really is okay, but to be fair he hasn’t been for a while now. He understands their concern, even if it still does make him feel a bit claustrophobic. 

“Come help us. All we have to do now is hang these up.” Mike offers, showing off the picture filled strings and box of tacks. 

“Oh. That’s…” Bill trails off, “Isn’t that a little too college white girl for Richie?” 

And with that, Richie’s crying again, this time from the force of his laughter. He sounds a bit like Bill, as he tries to stutter out words between guffaws. “Thuh-that’s—that's what I said!”

Beverly and Mike both watch on with fond smiles as Bill joins in on the laughter, rolling their eyes before standing up to start hanging things up. It’s probably better that those two figure out where each line of string would go beforehand because Bill and Richie had already proved today that they aren’t the best when it comes to any sort of interior design. It’s not long before both Bill and Richie calm down enough to go over to join Beverly and Mike. With the four of them, everything is hung up in what feels like mere seconds, and they all stand in front of the walls to admire them. Beverly and Bill are walking, looking at each picture up close for the first time and smiling at all the fun memories, while Richie and Mike sit back and watch them. Bill gets especially excited when he sees the Eddie Spaghetti picture, and Richie is no longer upset that it’s not in the notebook. 

“It looks good, Mike,” Beverly compliments, walking up to him and wrapping her hands around his arm. With the way she looks up at him with love in her eyes, Richie thinks that to anyone else, it probably would have looked flirty, or at least a little _too_ comfortable. However, Richie is well aware that that is just how they are. All of them. They’d gone through so much together, the evidence of that now on Richie’s wall, that they’ve reached a point beyond normal friendship. Not quite on the same level as Ben and Beverly, but further than what most adults would consider a normal platonic relationship. Richie’s heart aches at the sight of them, so comfortable with one another. Not for the first time, he’s reminded of how lucky he is to have them in his life again. Even if it’s not the way that the young Richie in the pictures in front of him, with Eddie and Stan at his sides, would have imagined it. 

Really, Richie should have expected it. The way the happy moment that filled Richie with content was so easily broken. He’s starting to get really tired at just how easily each of his friends find it to break his peace and bring back that familiar dread he’s finally begun to wish away. 

“So, Bev and I were talking…” Bill cuts in. “And we think we should all four of us should clean Richie’s room. Together.” 

A part of him had known, since he figured out they were here to help, that eventually, it was going to come to this. That they’d have to get started on that mess that is Richie’s room. He’d hoped that maybe one of them would do it by themselves, like how they’d split up the other tasks. Yet, the more he thinks about it, the more he despairs at the thought of what that one Loser might see. He can't bear the thought of them looking deeper into the atrocity that is his room. 

“It’ll be easier if we all do it together,” Beverly adds. “And I think it will be good for you, Rich— to help out with this one. It’ll be good to see it clean, and it will feel good knowing that you were able to do that. It’ll help you…” she looks for the right words to say, “let go.” 

“It’s going to have to get done eventually,” Mike agrees. 

Richie feels cornered. He can’t exactly say no, and he knows they’re right. It wouldn’t do them any good to help him out like this, to do all his work for him only to leave the worst of the problem untouched. He needs to actually start helping at some point. It doesn’t make him feel any better about it though. Much like putting a bandaid over a gaping wound: only a temporary fix. 

“Come on, it won't be as bad as you think. You’ll feel a lot better once it’s done,” Bill tries to encourage him, but Richie doesn’t really think he will feel any better. Sure, he’s started feeling better already. Happier, even. But he knows that’s not because his laundry was done or he had a real meal or his living room was rearranged. The only reason he was feeling any better was because his friends were here. But who knows how much longer they’d stick around when they realize just how disgusting he really is. Sure, Beverly has already been in his room and he’s positive that Bill went in to get the other clothes, but they haven’t seen how bad it _actually_ is. Not even Richie knows what lays in the depths under his bed, or what’s buried beneath the trash. 

_They could barely handle you when you were just trashmouth. What will they do when they find out the rest of you is trash as well?_

Beverly grabs his arm and starts leading him towards the stairs, Mike’s steady hand on his lower back; a comforting presence. He doesn’t want to do this. He almost says so, but he’s too trapped within his terrified thoughts to allow his mouth to run wild right now. Before he knows it, they’re in front of his bedroom door and this whole ordeal is starting to feel more dramatic than it should be. Yet the door seems to loom over Richie. He swears he can see dark tendrils peeking out from under it, beckoning him in, wanting to consume him. He feels the dark depressing energy through the door. He feels like he can’t breathe, and his vision is starting to tunnel, only seeing the door in front of him. He can almost make out the words _Very Scary_. Is this what a panic attack feels like? 

His entire body simultaneously stiffens and intensifies the tremors when Bill, without any hesitation, grabs the handle and opens up the door, walking inside armed with boxes of gloves and trash bags. Richie doesn’t remember Bill leaving to the kitchen to grab those. He walks in the room like there’s nothing amiss, setting the boxes down on the bed before beckoning the others in. Mike is the first to follow, squeezing around Richie and inside. 

“Huh. Not as bad as I thought it was gonna be. Can’t say my room’s never looked like this.” 

Surprisingly, Mike’s attempt at cutting the tension works. Richie’s body relaxes slightly and he allows himself to walk in along with Beverly. She gives him a look that he knows means, _see, we told you it would be that bad,_ but he doesn’t let his guard down just yet. They haven’t even seen the worst of it. 

Richie is the last to enter the room, after Beverly. He notices that Mike doesn’t seem at all bothered by the state of the room, and Richie can’t help but wonder why. Bill and Beverly have both already been in here long enough to get used to it, but this is the first time Mike has stepped foot in Richie’s bedroom. He seems to gracefully maneuver his way around the trash and clothes in a way that Bill and Beverly haven’t yet mastered. Maybe Mike wasn’t exaggerating or simply cutting the tension with his earlier comment. 

Richie can’t bring himself to actually enter the room and instead leans against the door frame. Considering his room is the master bedroom, it isn’t very large at all. The headboard of his queen size bed rests against the middle of the left wall, with the door to his ensuite bathroom being in the corner of that same wall. In the wall directly across from him is his walk-in closet, that he can see Bill taking over and cleaning. Richie doesn’t live in a mansion, but his house is fairly large and in Hollywood, which means a large walk-in closet is a staple for the master bedroom. The racks are half-filled with untouched clothes and stacks of unworn shoes line the walls. He’d never really thought much about it, but now Richie thinks that maybe the reason he owns so many clothes is because he doesn’t like seeing the emptiness. Right now though, light shines through the window at the back of the closet illuminating the bare walls and does it’s best to shine through the still blind-covered bedroom window next to the door to his closet. 

“Okay, it is way too quiet here. I can’t stand the sound of trashbags ruffling. I left my phone downstairs, so who’s going to volunteer theirs so I can turn on some music?” Bev announces, standing next to the bed she had previously been stripping. 

Mike goes to pull his phone out of his pocket, only to realize that he doesn't have his on him either. “Damn. Guess I left my downstairs too. I was taking pictures of the photos and I probably forgot to put it back in my pocket. Bill?” 

“Here,” Bill says, saving the day as he walks out of the closet to hand Beverly his unlocked phone. “The Pandora app should be on the first screen.” 

Beverly pauses, looking up from the phone with horror written all over her face. Bill looks worried, reaching out to her to ask what’s wrong, but Richie interrupts before either of them can say anything. 

“Pandora, man, really? Who the fuck uses Pandora?” 

“Exactly, you _heathen_ ,” Beverly teases, tossing the phone back to Bill, who promptly fumbles it and only just barely manages not to drop it. 

“Well, Pandora isn’t that bad. It’s really good for discovering new music,” Mike tries to defend, nodding at Bill when he sends him an appreciative glance. 

“It’s music, who cares?” Bill asks. 

_“Who cares,_ ” Beverly mimics. “Richie, give me your phone.” She holds out her hand, showing that it isn’t a request, but instead a demand. He walks over to his nightstand to grab his abandoned iPhone, glad to do it. He hasn’t listened to very much music in a while, but his Spotify has been painstakingly curated over many years with playlists to fit a variety of moods. He unlocks the phone for her before handing it over. 

“Premium?” she asks, not looking up from where she was scrolling through his countless app pages, looking for Spotify. 

_“Premium,_ she asks,” Richie teases, looking exasperatedly towards Bill and Mike who look a little lost. “Who do you think I am, Beaverly? _Of course_ I have premium.” 

“Good,” she replies, smiling up at all three of them before hitting a button on the phone and allowing a song to blast from the iPhone speaker, setting it on an empty shelf. As soon as the song plays, Richie knows exactly which playlist Beverly has selected and it brings warmth to his heart. It’s one he created just after leaving Derry, before the grief and depression hit the hardest. It’s the one he made for them, titled simply _The Losers’ Club._

Richie finds himself being pulled into dancing with Beverly, who is jumping around to the funky rock beat of the song playing. She is slowly stripping the bed as she dances, but she’s more focused on pulling Richie towards her and getting him to join in on the dancing. Even Mike and Bill, who are more focused on their individual tasks than Beverly, are shimmying along quietly. 

_“We care a lot!”_ Beverly shouts along with the first lyric, frowning when Richie doesn’t as well. He’s laughing and smiling, but she seems determined to get him to sing too. 

_"We care a lot!”_ she tries again, this time joined by the enthusiastic shouts of Mike and Bill. Richie just rolls his eyes and helps her strip the dirty bed. He can smell just how musky his side of the bed is and it makes him feel sick to his stomach. Though he isn’t sure if it’s the smell or the disgust at himself that makes him feel sick. 

_“We care a lot—”_ Beverly sings pointedly. 

_“ —about disasters, fires, floods, and killer bees,_ ” Richie finishes for her, looking up to her smiling face with a crooked grin mirrored on his own. She lets out a quick cheer before leading into the next lyric with another “ _We care a lot,”_

They continue like this throughout the entirety of the song. Dancing, singing, and cleaning simultaneously, with Bev, Bill, and Mike shouting out _“ We care a lot,”_ and Richie continuing each lyric, and all four of them shouting the chorus. Unlike the others, Richie doesn’t confine himself to one spot in the room. Instead of focusing on one thing, he’s helping out with little things for each of the others. He still sort of feels like he’s just getting in the way and not actually getting anything done himself, but he’s easily distracted by the song he’s belting along to. 

_"Said it’s a dirty job but someone’s gotta do it,”_ he and Mike shout, swaying their hips and banging their heads as they pick up bits of trash and throw them into bags at their sides. Beverly has mostly gotten all of the dirty plates in the room, which makes the area near the bed easier to access. The area surrounding the bed is by far the most packed with trash and clothes, which makes it the perfect place for Mike and Richie to park themselves as they clean. 

_“Well it’s a dirty job but someone’s gotta do it!”_ They’re standing on opposite sides of the bed, Mike on the right and Richie on the left. Richie wishes it could be the other way around, considering the right side is the side Richie usually sleeps on and therefore is the messiest, but he knows Mike wouldn’t let him. Despite the fact that they all asked him to help, they all seem to have a silent agreement that Richie is to do the least amount of work. 

_“Well it’s a dirty job but someone’s gotta do it!”_ The song is nearing its end now, at the point where it only repeats the same lyric over and over. 

_“Said it’s a dirty job but someone’s gotta do it!”_ Richie is too consumed in the song to notice where Mike is reaching until it’s too late. 

_“Said it’s a dirty song but someone’s gotta sing it!”_ Mike finishes the song alone, reaching for the full Gatorade bottle on Richie’s nightstand. He gingerly picks it up and deposits it into the trash bag by his side, careful not to let anything spill, leaving Richie to freeze and stop cleaning. 

“Mike,” Richie croaks in the silence between songs, looking at Mike across the bed with what he knows is a look of horror and eyes filled with shame induced tears. He’s not sure what he looks like right now, but from Mike’s reaction he’s sure he looks at least a little scared. 

“Woah, hey, Rich, what’s wrong? Are you okay?” he asks. Richie can tell that Mike is spooked but trying to hide it. He remembers hearing somewhere that when kids are hurt you’re supposed to act like everything is alright, because if you freak out so will they. Maybe this is what Mike is doing right now, trying to stay calm so that Richie will too. 

It doesn’t work. Richie breaks. A shaky, panicked breath escapes him with such force that it causes Mike to drop his bag and rush to Richie’s side. 

“I’m sorry. _I’m sorry,”_ Richie isn’t crying yet, but his voice is thick and he can’t stop repeating the words _“I’m sorry,”_ and _“the bottle, Mike.”_

“What bottle? Mike? Richie? What’s going on, are you okay?” Beverly asks, apparently having returned from her dish depositing trip to the kitchen. Mike shakes his head at her, but Richie can tell that Mike knows exactly what he’s talking about. He may not have reacted originally, but it’s plain to see on Mike’s face that he knew exactly what was in there. He knows that what he just grabbed was a bottle full of Richie's piss from when he couldn't make it to the bathroom. He reaches out to hold Richie but instantly recoils before his gloved hand can make contact, which causes the dam to break and the tears to flow. He’s panicking, he knows that now. He feels like he can’t catch his breath and his mind is on a constant loop. 

_He thinks you’re disgusting Richie. He can’t even bear to touch you. You’re worthless, Richie. You belong with the rest of this trash in your room._

_He can’t even touch you._

Richie’s eyes aren’t focusing, so he doesn’t see the way that Mike abruptly rips off his dirty gloves and returns his hands to Richie’s face. Richie almost can’t feel the contact. Almost. Mike’s hands feel grounding enough to provide a small amount of clarity, but not enough to stop the panicking and the thoughts. 

“It’s totally okay, man. I get it, I don’t think you’re disgusting. Sometimes it happens.” 

Richie just sobs harder, repeating over and over how sorry he is, how ashamed he is for being so disgusting. How ashamed he is by the way his room looks. He feels like a broken record, but something in his mind is telling him that if he doesn’t keep repeating it, then they won't hear him. Mike just hugs him through it, eventually bringing him to sit down on a clean patch of carpet. Together they sit there, Mike hugging him through his panic. It’s not long before he feels another pair of arms wrap around him and a pair of hands combing through his hair. Mike’s silent comfort is aided by Bill’s stutterless words, reassuring him that he doesn’t need to be sorry and that he’s not disgusting **.**

It takes a while for Richie to calm down. It’s easier to focus on calming his breathing when his head is buried against Mike’s chest while he breathes exaggeratedly as an example. He feels lightheaded and the tears just won’t stop coming, but eventually, he feels okay enough to pry his hands away from where they’re balled up and pulling on his hair. He can feel the way the joints in his fingers creak as he allows them to relax. He’s still shaking and he feels even more vulnerable now than he did before, but he’s finally stopped panicking. 

Even after Richie calms down, they sit for a while like this. Richie curled up in Mike’s arms, his head buried in his chest and the feeling of Bill’s chest on his back. Somewhere nearby is Beverly, he’s sure of it by the nails lightly scratching at his scalp. He’s done crying, but his body is still shaking and he’s still terrified to look away from Mike’s chest. He doesn’t want to know what horrors he will see; which things have been uncovered from the layers of clothes and trash. Beverly is the one to leave first, and he can tell by the quiet shuffling and crinkling that she has picked up her job of cleaning the room. He can barely hear the music playing, so he assumes that either someone turned it down or he’s still a little out of it. Soon, Bill is gone too and all that’s left is Richie in Mike’s arms. He doesn’t want to get up. 

“Come on, Rich. I know it’s hard but we gotta get it done.” Richie feels like a child, not for the first time, in the way that he whines, but he finally uncurls himself from Mike’s hold. His glasses are now fogged up, and the second he takes to wipe them off is all he needs to mentally prepare himself for seeing his room once more. 

Despite the break they had all taken, Richie’s room is in much better shape than it had been before. He can see the carpet, albeit dirty and stained, and all his dirty clothes are piled up by the door, waiting to be transferred into the laundry room. A few trash bags line the walls; a testament to how much trash had been picked up. It shouldn’t be that surprising, the amount they all managed to clean in the four something minutes the song was on. There are four of them to tackle the room, after all. Really, everything is in different piles waiting to be picked up or organized, so it’s not actually clean yet, but he knows they won't be here for much longer. 

Bill returns by Richie’s side to hold out a broom for him, and for a moment Richie’s confused. Is Bill expecting him to sweep the carpet _?_ He knows that he isn’t the best at cleaning but he’s pretty sure you’re supposed to vacuum carpet. 

“I know you’re probably uncomfortable with us seeing the really gross stuff, so I thought you’d want to be the one to get down and sweep all the trash out from under the bed.” Bill shrugs. On one hand, he absolutely does not want to do it. He’d just had a whole breakdown and sure doesn’t have the energy. On the other hand, however, he appreciates Bill not pushing him and making Richie deal with the fact that they’re all going to see gross things, and he’s happy that Bill has enough faith in him to do something by himself for once. So far, it’s not something any of the Losers had done for him. They’d spent so much time helping him out and doing things for him, that they hadn't entrusted him with anything beyond small tasks. Ben didn’t let him clear out the dishwasher, Mike did most of the choosing of the photographs, Bill only let him separate the clothes and Beverly literally _bathed him._ He didn’t really want to do these things in the first place (his friends wouldn’t be here if he did), but maybe it would have been good for him not to be so babied. It would have been good for him to be forced to do some heavy lifting. At least, that’s what he thinks. But here Bill is, assigning him a whole section of the room to do by himself, the same amount of work the others are doing. He doesn’t want to do it, but knowing that they trust and expect him to helps him start. 

The sound of dozens of water bottles being crinkled and dragged out from under the bed, however, is just mortifying enough to nearly make him want to stop and run out. It’s loud enough that the sound of The Cure playing from his phone is completely drowned out. He looks around, and though each of the Losers definitely heard it (hell, Ben probably heard it from downstairs), none of them look up or say a thing. So Richie gets to work, throwing each and every water bottle into a trash bag. Sure, it's not very environmentally friendly, but Richie thinks that maybe the amount of water he’d conserved these past weeks by not showering, flushing, washing his laundry or doing his dishes had more than made up for the amount of plastic he’d be sending into the ocean. 

Though that definitely isn’t a good thought to focus on. He already feels immense guilt for enough things, he doesn’t need to add killing the turtles to that list. And after everything, the turtles have done for him, too. 

( _The Turtle can help us_ , he remembers being uttered back in Derry. _The Turtle can help you._

But can it, really?)

Soon enough, Richie gets into a sort of rhythm while cleaning, and he finds that his mind goes totally blank. He’s mindlessly completing task after task so by the time Beverly taps him on the shoulder and hands him his phone to clue him in to Ben’s new group text about dinner being done, he’s surprised to see that they’re nearly finished. Save for a few small pieces of trash here and there, the still naked bed, and the stacks of dishes and trash bags that still need to be brought down. He looks around in wonder at his room. He’s not sure he’s ever seen it this clean, and that oppressive weight that came from entering it earlier had now gone. It’s the result of finally having that long-overdue breakdown, but also from seeing his room _clean._ It’s stupid, but just being able to see the carpet puts him in much brighter spirits than before. He’s sure there's some sort of psychology behind it, but he’s not too worried about that. At some point, someone had opened the blinds to his window and the way the light illuminates his room makes him feel leagues more comfortable with the people he loves seeing it. 

His phone is still blasting music, and Richie isn’t itching to shut it off any time soon. The song that is playing, _Dear God_ by XTC, is one that he had originally added because of his mixed feelings about the afterlife. It’s a song he added to torture himself. One that never failed to make him think about the friends he lost (not that there was ever a time he wasn’t thinking about them). Yet, now, as he stands in front of the snowy window of his clean room, he feels different. More open. 

“Ben made burgers,” Beverly informs from where she stands in the doorway, waiting for him to follow her downstairs. It seems that both Bill and Mike had already made their way down, and he doesn’t blame them. He turns around to look at her, smiling before shutting off the music. They walk downstairs hand in hand and once he reaches the stairs he’s smelling what Ben has been doing in the kitchen which causes his stomach to growl. “He’s really good at it. He usually stuffs them full of different kinds of cheese and they’re always the right amount of greasy. Plus he likes to make homemade fries. It’s really amazing, perfect comfort food,” she chatters on, clearly daydreaming about the food they are going to eat. Richie is happy for her, but also extremely jealous. Though he’s not sure if it’s the food or the life he’s jealous of. 

Richie’s mouth waters once they get to the dinner table, which is already set with food plated. The circular table that sits between his living room and kitchen is nearly filled with all the food. It’s fairly small, not made for five people to sit around, but it brings the same feeling that Richie got when he first saw the redesigned living room. Richie sits down with Ben on his left and Mike on his right, across from both Beverly and Bill. He can feel Bev’s foot resting against his calf and Mike’s knee knocks into his every now and then, but it’s more comfortable than it is crowded. Mike and Bill are already chowing down, but Ben seems to have waited for Beverly and Richie to get to the table before touching any of his food. He can’t say for sure, but Ben seems like the kind of cook who won't take a bite until every else at the table has gotten a chance to.

 _Beverly was right_ , he thinks as he eyes the giant burger that sits on the plate before him. It looks delicious, thick and just the right amount of greasy. And… is that a toasted bun? In the center of the table is an array of condiments and various toppings for the burgers. There isn’t a single onion in sight. 

Once Richie and Beverly get situated and take their first bites, Ben starts eating as well, confirming Richie’s earlier suspicions. The table is quiet, save for the sound of chewing that starts to grate on Richie’s nerves. Turns out, a day of hard work and unfucking an entire house requires a lot of effort, even if there are five ( _four and a half_ ) people working on it. 

Ben is the first one to speak up. Richie isn’t exactly sure what he says, but he knows he isn’t being directly addressed so he doesn’t mind. At least there’s something to drown out the sound of eating. He continues eating his food in silence, much slower than the others but still eating nonetheless. He’s a little proud of himself for eating as much as he had today. Certainly not the same amount he would have been able to pack down months ago, but more than he has in the past couple of days. 

Ben, Beverly, Mike, and Bill all continue to converse around him. Joyous laughter and light chirps are being thrown around, and the more the happy air invades Richie’s mind, the angrier he gets. The breakdown he had in his room felt like the opening of the floodgates. He was able to keep the emotions welled up enough when he distracted himself with cleaning, but the rest of his thoughts and feelings are bursting at the seams, screaming to get out. And the longer he sees his friends act like nothing's wrong, the shorter his patience gets. 

He can only take it for so long before he explodes. He doesn’t know which part he’s angrier about, how they can all act okay as if two of their closest friends hadn’t _died,_ or how none of them seem to even care that Richie hasn’t said a word since sitting at the table. What happened to caring about him? To caring about Stan and Eddie?

“Will you guys just shut the fuck up?” he snaps, throwing down the half-eaten fry in his hand hard enough that it bounces off his plate and into the center of the table. This has clearly gotten their attention, as they all immediately stop their conversations and look to him. He feels powerful as they all stop what they’re doing to lay their gaze on him. Beverly looks shocked, shrinking back ever so slightly, Bill looks offended and both Ben and Mike look concerned. He glares at each one of them, but no one says a word, clearly waiting for Richie to explain his outburst. He lets out a dry, humorless laugh before speaking once more. 

“So you guys are just gonna sit here and act like nothing’s wrong?”

“Richie—” Beverly starts, reaching a hand out for him. 

“No,” he interrupts. “No. You guys are all just sitting here and talking about your lives as if everything is okay. As if we didn’t survive the _worst_ possible thing. How can you guys act like you’re so okay when I’m struggling to keep my head above the fucking water? Do none of you _care_ ? Am I the only one who cares that two of my _best fucking friends_ are _dead_?” he yells, hands fisted on the table, nearly ready to push him up and out of his seat. Bill opens his mouth, but Richie doesn’t wait for any sort of response. 

“God, none of you even fucking _talk_ about him anymore! He was my best friend! He was my best friend and he’s gone, and no one cares! He took his own fucking life! What the fuck am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to sleep at night knowing that he _slit his fucking wrists in a bathtub?_ I can barely get out of bed in the morning because I miss him so much and not a single one of you can even say his name. At least you talk about Eddie every now and then but never, _never_ a word about Stan as he was in between. No, all you guys care about is your new boat,” he says to Ben and Beverly, “or your new shitty fucking book,” he turns to Bill, “or your latest adventure,” he spits to Mike, who looks stunned. 

“What about his wife? Patty? I’m sure you guys didn’t even know her fucking name because I’m the only one who even cares about him! How can you be okay with just… with—” Richie’s throat closes as if he’s afraid of the next words that will come out of his mouth. They shoot out like poison, hurting not only the ones around him but himself as well, “forgetting him.” Each word that comes out is a knife, shredding his own throat before embedding themselves in the minds whoever they’re directed at. It hurts, but each one feels like someone has shoved their hand down his throat and ripped them out, completely outside of his own control.

Richie turns to Bill. 

“You were supposed to be his best friend. It was always the four of us. Me, you, Stan and Eddie against the world. He loved you, man. You weren’t just our leader, you were his _friend._ The only one he felt he could go to when Eddie and I were pulling our usual bullshit. God, he talked about you like you were a god among men when we were kids and you can’t even give him the decency to _pretend_ like you’re grieving? 

“And what about Eddie, huh? He was even closer to you than Stan and I were. It was always you and Eddie and me and Stan, and you don’t even seem a little bothered by his death. All you see is the new ending to your shitty new book. Newsflash man, it’s not gonna be a good one!” It’s not even a good insult. He knows that Bill is well aware and a little insecure about his book endings, but if Richie _really_ wanted to hurt him, there are other things he could say. 

“Richie, you need to calm down,” Ben says. He’s using his stern voice, one that he hasn’t heard since they needed Ben to play mediator in high school. Richie whips his head to him, eyes catching on a shell shocked Beverly before his glare lands on Ben. 

“Oh don’t give me that bullshit. You clearly don’t give a fuck either. Forget Richie who just watched the _love of his fucking life,”_ Richie doesn’t have the time or energy to focus on their reactions to _this_ news, “I better make out with my childhood love right in front of him, while he’s crying! Look at me, I’m happy successful Ben Hanscom, I should send a picture of me and my happy girlfriend to my best friend Richie. Who cares if he can barely get out of bed in the morning due to his grief over losing _the only two fucking people who meant anything to him!”_ Richie screams. His eyes are wide and he’s sure he looks mad, in every sense of the word. He’s half standing in his chair once he finishes his rant, plopping his ass back down with a huff. No one says anything for a few seconds, stunned. 

“God, I fucking hate all of you,” Richie mutters, just loud enough for everyone to hear. They all flinch, clearly able to tell that his tone of voice is _absolutely_ serious. 

To everyone's surprise, Richie starts laughing. It’s not his usual laugh; it’s spiteful and wet with tears. 

“You know, I dream about hurting you? Like, all the time,” he informs them with a deceptively soft voice, eyes looking towards the ceiling. He’s not sure he wants to see their reactions to this. 

“I think about it a lot. I can’t help it. It’s like one moment I’m sad, and the next I’m just so angry. I’m so mad that you’re all doing so okay while I can’t figure out how to make the hurting just fucking _stop._ I think that if I can’t stop hurting then I should just make you guys hurt, too.” His eyes roll towards Ben who has a cold look on his face and Beverly who has an emotionless mask before he turns to look back up at the ceiling again. “I think about one of you losing the other. Just like I did Eddie. And that’s on a good day. _I want you to destroy each other,_ ” he spits. The weight with which he says this makes even him flinch. “I want you to hurt each other. To _hate_ each other. And that’s not fair, right? I lost Eddie but he still loved me. But I just can’t stop thinking about it. I’m sure it would be _spectacular,_ to see everything blow up in your faces. But maybe that’s too easy. Hatred is so much easier to live with than loss.”

“Richie!” Ben yells, but his stern voice seems to affect Beverly more than it does Richie, who doesn’t seem to care about the interruption. From the bottom of his vision, Richie can see the way Beverly tries to distance herself from all of them, and the way Ben seems torn between yelling and staying quiet. For what reason, Richie doesn’t quite care. 

Richie gestures towards Bill next, eyes still on the ceiling. “And you. God, sometimes it feels like I hate you the most.” 

“He was dead, Bill. I get that you were upset, but George was— _is_ dead and there is nothing any of us could have done about it. But we tried, and where did that leave us? Fuck— Do you remember,” he says, turning to face Bill for the first time, fully expecting the look of rage on Bill’s face that he sees. “The last thing you said to Eddie, directly? Because I do. He was freaking out, panicking like any fucking normal human being and you just stood there and berated him for being _afraid._ He would have done anything for you, hell, he _did_ do anything for you! Whatever you fucking asked! And look where he ended up. And what do you do? You start to write some shitty fucking book that you’re not even going to change the ending to. You couldn’t give him a chance at happiness when he was alive, so why do it now, right?” 

Everyone sits on in stunned silence as Richie turns his eyes towards Mike. Unlike Bill, he looks more disappointed than hurt. As soon as Richie opens his mouth, he knows he’s going to change that. He’s not sure if that makes him feel better or not. 

“Why’d you have to call us back, Mike?” Richie asks, his voice softer and more pleading than it was before. It feels like he’s losing steam, which frustrates him even more. He hasn’t even said everything he needs to say. “If you hadn’t called—” 

“Stan would still be alive,” Mike speaks, surprising Richie. Richie just hardens his eyes. 

“He would. He’d be happy with his wife. And I’d be here and Ben and Bev wouldn’t have each other but, at least they’d be alive. But apparently the lives of children that none of us even knew were more important than the ones we love.” 

“Yes,” Beverly declares. “I will always choose to sacrifice the lives of few for the lives of many. They’re _children_ Richie.” 

Richie scoffs. “Even if one of the few is Ben?” 

“Yes.” 

Richie doesn’t believe her. It’s one thing to say you would, it’s another to actually do it. 

“Stan made his choice,” Bill says, still visibly angry, but trying to hold back. 

“Are you fucking kidding me, Bill? Are you really going to sit there and tell me it was Stan’s—” 

“Yes. It was ssstupid, and god I _huh-hate_ that he did it. But i-it was his decision, well-informed or not. It’s not Mike’s fffault and it’s certainly not mine. I get that you’re upset Richie, but that is no excuse to tuh-tuh-take it out on us like this! Just because we’re not as— as fucked up about it as you are doesn’t mean we’re okay. I love you Richie, I really do, but if you would just look past your own shit you would see that every single one of us is suffering!” Bill yells. 

“Bill.” Mike reaches out to try and get him to calm down. Beverly, next to Bill, sits further back in her chair as if trying to shrink herself. 

“No. He needs to hear this,” Bill says, eyes trained on a stunned Richie. “You think I’m writing our ssstory for what? Fame? Money? You don’t know shit, Richie. I’m writing because that’s what I duh- _do._ Hah-how am I supposed to get over eh-any of this if I just keep it bottled up? I mean, thuh-that’s what you’re doing and it’s clearly not working for you. I cuh-can’t talk to my wife about it and I sssure as hell can’t go to a therapist and tell them everything I went through. We all deal with our own shuh-shuh- _shit_ in our own ways, and just because I’m not drowning myself in alcohol and my own filth doesn’t mean I’m fffucking okay.” 

“Bill—” Mike tries to scold. 

“I could have carried him out of there,” Ben chimes in. Everyone, except Beverly, snaps their gaze towards him. “I dream about it. Eddie, he— he comes to me in my dreams. He hates me. He won't stop yelling at me, asking me why I just— _I left him down there._ You were dead weight and I got _you_ out of there, Richie, so why couldn’t I have gotten him.”

“It was too dirty down there,” Richie croaks. 

“Yeah.” Ben laughs, humorlessly and wet with tears. “It was. He hated it down there. But that’s not even the worst part. You know, sometimes I think that maybe— maybe he wasn’t actually dead.” Richie’s breath hitches. “We never did check for a pulse, did we? What if I could have saved him? It— it keeps me up at night. I haven’t been able to sleep for a full 8 hours in months. I’m terrified I’m going to keep seeing him… there in my dreams.” 

After Ben finishes, there’s a silence in the room. Richie is sure that Bill has something to say, but it seems as if they’re both waiting on either Mike or Beverly to speak up. To tell their side of the story. 

“Richie was right,” Mike starts. “Stan would be alive if I hadn’t called him.”

“Mike, you don’t know—”

“But I do know that. He killed himself because I called him back. Because I reminded him that It was out there. Maybe— maybe it wasn’t exactly my _fault._ I couldn’t have done anything to prevent that, but it still sucks. And Eddie, too. If I hadn’t called any of you back, we wouldn’t be in this situation. They would both be alive and Bill your marriage wouldn’t be on the rocks and Richie you—” 

“I’d still be in an abusive relationship,” Beverly interrupts. Her words come like a slap in the face. On some level, each of the surviving Losers knows what happened to Beverly and what her marriage was like. It was just one of those things they never really talked about. Beverly never seemed to want to offer up any details to anyone who wasn’t Ben, and Bill, Richie, and Mike had never really minded. Not when they knew they wouldn’t like the story. Something tells Richie that dealing with four angry men isn't something Beverly is comfortable with, even if she knows they aren't angry with her. That familiar guilt is back again, replacing the anger, for making Beverly sit through all of this. He knows that she’s the strongest person he knows, but he shouldn’t have done any of this. The yelling. The anger. The attacks. 

“That call was the only thing that finally gave me the courage to leave. Mike, you would still be alone and miserable. Trapped in a town that has always been against you. I don’t think we were ever meant to live tragedy free lives. Even before we fought It the first time, we were still… I don’t know, connected by something. Like it was always meant to be this way.” 

The silence stretches on as everyone thinks of her words. But for Richie, there is only one thing on his mind. 

“Eddie would still be in a— he was like you Bev. It was different, but it was— she was bad. To him.” His voice is quiet, but everyone hears the words. Beverly’s eyes soften, and he can see tears start to form her eyes. 

“After Derry— the second time, after we told the police that he was trapped in the house when it collapsed, I took his luggage. I knew the police were going to inform his wife, but I thought maybe it would be easier if I could be the one to bring her his stuff back. It would be easier to hear what happened from a friend than the police, even if it wasn’t the truth.” Richie sighs, pushing away his plate of half-eaten food and taking a giant swig of his water glass. He wishes it was alcohol, but he knew if he tried he’d be stopped. 

“Lucky me, our Eds was still neurotic as hell and insisted on putting tags with his address on his luggage. And when I got to his place and knocked on the door, I—” Richie feels like his throat is closing up at the memory. “God, his _mom_ opened the door.” 

Richie’s head falls into his hands, knowing that he has more to say but not sure how to say it. 

“His mom died a few years back Rich, that’s impossible,” Mike says. Right, Mike had kept up with all of them in the years in between. 

“I know. I mean, it wasn’t actually her but—”

“His wife was exactly like her,” Beverly says and Richie nods. “It’s— I see a therapist now. She says that sometimes when you grow up with abuse, you’ll seek that abuse in someone else after leaving it. Something about finding comfort in the familiar. It’s why I stayed with Tom and why Eddie probably…” she trails off. 

“Yeah. Probably.” Richie feels like he doesn’t have a voice anymore. “They looked so alike. And she totally freaked out on me. Kept calling me all the same things I remember his mom calling me. She blamed me, and I thought at first that y’know, she lost her husband, of course she’s going to be hysterical. But she just kept going on about how sick he was and how she should have never even let him out of her sight. I couldn’t handle it, so I left. I-I didn’t stick around long enough to get to know her but I know that Eddie wasn’t in a good place. Not before Derry. And—” A sob is ripped from his throat. “He’s never going to get a chance to start over.” 

At the sight of Richie’s tears, Beverly starts crying as well. 

“I never even got a chance to know him,” she says, tears running down her face silently. “Either of them. I was— I was only with you guys for that summer and those few days again in Derry. You and Bill knew them for so long Rich, and Ben and Mike at least got a few more years with them in high school, but I only ever got that summer. I should have spent more time with them. I should have— god I could have been there for Eddie. If I had known what was going on then—” She can’t finish her sentence, the sob that tears from her throat has her burying her face in her hands, mirroring the way Richie looks. Ben reaches out to comfort her, but she moves away from his hand, and he doesn’t push her to accept his attempt at comfort. 

“They luh-loved you, Bev,” Bill says, his voice thick with unshed tears. He raises his hand to place on her shoulder, but Ben sends him a look that stops him. “After you left, we would all talk about you a lot. About how much we missed you. It wasn’t just me and Ben, it was Eddie and Ssstan too. They both admired you ssso much. They loved you, just as much as they loved all of us. And… they wouldn’t want this. Nuh-neither of them would want this. They wouldn’t want us to hurt like this.” More guilt floods through Richie’s system. He has since stopped sobbing, but the tears are still flowing down his face. An anguished moan tears from his throat at the thought of what Stan and Eddie would say to him right now. 

“Stan would be so pissed at me,” he cries. “He’d be so mad at me for talking to you all like this. For being so mad. And Eddie, he wouldn’t take my bullshit. He’d start yelling right back. He wouldn’t let me—” 

“I think they’d be upset with all of us, not just you Richie. And Stan, he would understand. He was always giving you a hard time, but he loved you so much,” Mike says. “I think he always understood you better than anyone else. He’d put you in your place, but he wouldn’t be mad at you. He’d—- I think he’d understand. You’re not okay… none of us are. And Bill was right, that’s not an excuse for you to treat us like this but… you’re not okay right now. And I get that.”

Ben nods. “And Eddie would fight back, yeah, but he’d do it because he loves you. Because he knows how stupid your thoughts are and that you don’t really mean it. He was always abrasive, but his heart was pure.” Richie sniffles. He can always count on Ben for making the cheesiest statements sound sincere. 

“If Eddie and Stan were here, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation in the first place,” Beverly says, wiping away her tears, some of which are still falling. “But they aren’t. And right now we have to accept that we only have each other. Rich, I get that you’re mad but it’s not fair of you to say those things to us.” 

“I know, and I’m sorry,” he says, and he finds that he actually means it. He means it more than he thinks he has ever meant anything in his life. He knew the second those earlier words had started coming out of his mouth that he would regret it. He wanted his friends to hurt just as much as he was hurting, but he’d ended up hurting himself even more in the process. But that’s what Trashmouth does. He opens his mouth and pushes everyone away. It’s all he knows how to do. 

“For what it’s worth, I don’t think you meant to hurt us. You just wanted us to hurt,” she says. 

“Same fucking difference,” Richie replies, still deep in his own self-loathing. 

“No,” she asserts, sitting up straighter. “No, Richie it’s not. If anyone knows the difference it’s me. Richie, you’re hurting and from where you’re at it looks like we’re all okay. You don’t understand how we can seem so fine and I know you feel like you’re alone in this but you’re not. Richie, helping you is not the only reason we’re here. We’re all hurting, and the only way we can get through this is if we have each other.”

“Beverly’s right,” Bill says. “I’m sssorry you’re hurting right now, Richie, but we all are. And we need you just as much as you need us. I luh-love you, and if that means listening to you talk about your intrusive thoughts about us then I’ll be glad to but you hah-have to know that you don’t really mean those things, and it’s not fair to any of us to pretend like you do.” 

Richie is unable to say anything other than repeating how sorry he is. 

“‘Intrusive thoughts’, huh? Nice therapy word, Bill.” Ben smiles, making Bill laugh lightly. 

“Yuh-yeah. Audra and I started going to couples therapy awhile ago and I realized it’d probably be good for me to have some one-on-one sssessions as well.”

“Beverly convinced me to see someone after she started too. It’s hard not being able to talk about all the stuff with It, but it’s helped,” Ben says. Mike perks up at this, looking towards Richie. 

“I think you should probably look into seeing someone too, Rich. As much as we all want to be here for you, we’re not exactly trained for it. It’d probably be nice to get a professional opinion.”

“And say what, exactly, Mike?” Richie doesn’t mean to sound harsh, but something about the thought of seeing a therapist makes him freeze up. “Can’t exactly tell people about my very specific alien clown-related trauma.” 

Mike doesn’t seem deterred. 

“Well… maybe you can start with the fact that you, uh— you were in love with Eddie?” Mike says, softly, as if he were trying not to spook Richie. It doesn’t work, however, because Richie freezes for real this time. He can feel how wide his eyes are, plagued with the same fear he felt that day in the arcade with Connor Bowers. He kind of hoped that maybe they had just all ignored the parts about Richie loving Eddie. Or at least worked overtime to find some sort of hetero, brotherly-love explanation like straight people were so fond of doing. 

“Hey, no, Richie,” Ben says, reaching out to grab his hand. Carefully, Ben pries it out of the fist it was balled in and threads his fingers through Richie's. “It’s not— you don’t need a therapist to fix that. We love you man, it doesn’t matter who you love.” 

Mike cringes, quickly reaching out to grab Richie’s right hand from his seat next to him. “I didn’t mean it like that, Rich. Ben’s right, it doesn’t matter who you love. I just thought that y’know, there’s probably a reason you haven’t uh— told anyone? About any of it, not just Eddie. Well, at least I don’t think you have.” 

“You guys can say it, y’know,” Richie says pathetically, from where he’s staring at the table and refusing to meet their eyes. He knows he won't find judgment, but somehow the love and acceptance is even harder to face. Especially when he’s built up this fear in his mind for so long that he’d be rejected. It feels wrong. “You can say that I’m— fuck. I’m gay,” he whispers, nearly choking on his own tears. Bill reaches out to grab Richie and Mike’s hands, still intertwined, to squeeze them before drawing back. When Richie looks up, he can see Beverly smiling softly and warm at him. 

“I don’t think they were trying to avoid saying it because it’s weird or makes them uncomfortable, but because they weren’t sure what you were either. Just because you loved Eddie doesn’t mean you’re, like, fully gay. It’s 2017, Richie, bisexual people exist,” she tries to joke. Richie finds himself cracking a smile, still too emotionally drained to laugh but amused all the same. 

“Did you know? About um, any of it?” he asks, not sure what kind of answer he’s looking for. 

“I don’t know about anyone else, but I’m more than a little shocked,” Bill laughs. “Not in a bad way,” he’s quick to correct, “but who would have thought that Richie ‘I fucked your muh-mom” Tozier was actually going after DILFs this whole time.” 

This time, Bill does actually manage to drag a small laugh out of Richie. It’s not really funny, any other time Richie would have teased him for using the word DILF unironically, but maybe that’s why he’s laughing. 

“Actually, now that you say that,” Mike chimes in, “it seems a little obvious. I mean, we all knew you were compensating but I just assumed it was because you were a loser who wasn’t actually getting any.” It's not an insult, Mike calling him a loser. Richie knows that. 

“That and you were pretty touchy-feely with all of us. It was always worse with Eddie, but you were all over us in high school,” Ben says. 

“Hey!” Richie shouts in mock offense. “That wasn’t because I was gay, I just loved you guys.” He pouts. 

“Sounds pretty gay to me,” Bill retorts, taking a sip from his glass. Richie makes sure to pout extra hard in his direction.

“Okay, but you also would not shut up about how attractive you think I am when we met back up in Derry,” Ben says, raising an eyebrow at him and causing heat to rush to his cheeks. He’s not the only one, however, because even Ben seems a little flushed and embarrassed by his own words. 

“Not to mention, you didn’t really stare at me as much as the others. Especially at the quarry. It always felt different when you were looking at me,” Beverly adds. Instantly, the others blush, Bill and Ben looking more embarrassed than Mike, who seems to own it, sending an exaggerated wink her way. 

“But, no, Richie. I don’t think any of us knew. Not until you said something anyway,” Beverly answers. 

“I don’t know about that,” Ben says. “I think Stan probably knew. He was always really good at reading people, especially Richie. I think if any of us knew it would have been him.”

Richie nods. He can’t remember ever having a conversation with Stan, or anyone for that matter, about it, but there were definitely times where he felt like maybe Stan knew. At the time, he’d been afraid of his friend ever figuring it out. Now he thinks that if Stan knew, which he probably did, he wouldn’t have cared much. Stan loved him then just as much as Ben, Mike, Bill, and Beverly do now. 

“Actually,” Bill adds, “Nuh-not to be rude or invasive or anything, but Richie, did you love Ssstan, tuh-too? I mean, like how you loved Eddie? You just got so upset about him earlier.” His voice is soft, and he can tell by the increase in his stutter that he’s nervous about asking. Richie thinks that Bill probably doesn’t want to set him off again or something. 

“I don’t have to be in love with someone to be broken up about their death, Big Bill.” Richie deflects, sending a sad smile his way. 

“Right,” he nods. 

“Maybe you’re right Mike,” Richie says, causing Mike to furrow his brow in confusion. Richie disentangles his hands from where Ben and Mike were holding them, to bring his plate of food back closer to so he can pick up a fry. 

“Maybe I should see someone,” he concludes. This earns him smiles all around. 

“You know, Ben and I,” Beverly says, looking lovingly towards Ben, reaching out to him for the first time since Richie’s explosion, “we both came up for a cover story. For what happened with It. It’s kind of hard to not talk about It in therapy, so we say the same thing we told the police. We were attacked by Henry Bowers and the house collapsed. We watched a friend of ours die there, getting stuck in the collapse. It’s as close to the truth as we can get, and it’s not like anyone is going to fact check us. For the more Pennywise-specific details, I just say it’s a recurring nightmare caused by the trauma of what ‘actually’ happened.” 

Before Richie can say anything, Bill pales, leaning his head into his hands and groaning. Everyone looks at him with confusion. “Ugh, that’s so smart. Why didn’t I think of that? I've just been… nuh-not talking about it. My therapist gets so fffrustrated with me when I refuse to tell her what happened! She’s nice about it but she keeps going on about ‘how can I help you move on if I don’t know what happened?’” Mike laughs at this, reaching out to nudge Bill’s shoulder in that weird way straight guys do to show their affection. Richie cracks a smile, half because of Bill’s anguish and half because now he’s thinking about people in terms of _ugh, straight people,_ and he never thought he’d get to that point in his life. “And here I am, writing a stupid book to get over it when I could have come up with a story the whole time. That’s literally what I do! I come up with stories!” he cries. 

“Hey, maybe now you can _stop_ writing the book and talk about it instead,” Mike says, earning a glare from Bill and an under the table high five from Richie. 

“Whose side are you even on, _Hanlon_?” Bill chides, causing Mike to raise his hands in the air to convey his innocence. 

“No one’s,” he laughs. “I’m just saying, _Denbrough.”_

Ben, Beverly, and Richie all watch the exchange while laughing around mouths of food. The air in the room is light and happy once again, but this time Richie doesn't feel suffocated by it. He’s not upset by the happiness surrounding him; he relishes in it. He allows himself to smile and laugh and join in on the banter between his friends. It still hurts, allowing himself to be happy and okay when Stan and Eddie will never get their chances too, but it’s easier now. He finally got everything off his chest, and it feels like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders. It’s easier to be around all of his friends now that they’re not all tiptoeing around Richie’s issues. 

Richie can’t eat everything on his plate. The burger and fries were delicious, but the portion was way too large for his now shrunken stomach to handle. He glares at the plate, gaze moving down towards his stomach as if he’s trying to glare it into submission and allow him to eat more. He can’t remember the last time he had a home-cooked meal like this. Even before Derry, he wasn’t the best at cooking. Being a 40-year-old bachelor, he knew the basics, but couldn’t imagine himself making something this good. Alas, he still has half a burger and a barely dented pile of fries left on his plate when the others start to announce they're full as well. 

Ben seems to be the only one who notices Richie’s irate glare at the food. 

“You know you can just box it up. Save it for lunch tomorrow?” Ben laughs. 

“But it won't be as good tomorrow when it’s heated up again. The cheese won't be as melty,” Richie complains, watching and doing nothing Ben grabs his plate and walks into the kitchen without putting up any sort of fuss. He simply watches with sad eyes as the plate is taken away from him. Despite the complaining, though, Richie knows that he is going to demolish the other half of that burger tomorrow, and he finds his mouth watering at the thought. Bill and Mike both grab their plates, with Bill grabbing Beverly’s when she makes no move to get up and join Ben in the kitchen to box up the leftovers and put the dishes in the dishwasher. Beverly and Richie remain seated at the table, with hands resting over their bloated stomachs. 

“I think we ate too much,” Beverly groans, looking a little sick. 

“I’ll drink to that. Is he always like this? Cooking amazing food? Because I might just have to steal him,” Richie jokes. 

“Yes,” Beverly says, seriously. “It’s the worst!” 

This causes Richie to let out a boisterous laugh. “That settles it, I’m definitely stealing him from you Ms. Ungrateful.”

“I mean, it’s great, _he’s_ great, but I swear Rich it’s like he’s trying to fatten me up. He cooks this great food all the time and I _still_ haven’t learned because nearly every night I eat way too much and feel sick.” Her hands haven’t left her stomach, rubbing absent circles as if to will away the nausea. 

“Making him do all the cooking, Miss Marsh? How unladylike of you,” Richie chides, a smile overtaking his green face. 

“I don’t think it’s like that. I think… I’m not sure, but I think it’s his way of showing his love. He’s told me about his mom, and how she was so upset when he was trying to lose weight. She didn’t like seeing him eating less than normal. Making sure he was fed and full was her way of showing that she loved him, and I think he picked up on that. Not sure if _he_ knows that, but still.” Beverly looks contemplative, and Richie finds that his lips are being forced into a smile by the overwhelming love in his heart. If making food for his loved ones, and making sure they were full and satisfied, is Ben’s way of showing his love, then the freezer full of Tupperware with meal-prepped food for the week was the physical embodiment of Ben’s love for him. Absently, he’d known that all of his friends had come to visit him and help him out because they love him, and they’ve said it enough times that he’s sure of it, but something about this feels more specific. It feels more real and concrete. Words don’t mean anything when you have the ability to lie, but actions leave no room for falsity.

“He’s really good to you, huh?” Richie asks, his voice soft and loving. He’s glad he has someone like Ben in his life, but even more glad that Beverly does too. 

“He better be,” Richie hears from somewhere behind him, as Bill joins them back at the table and sits down once again next to Beverly. “Loser or not, he hurts you and you know we’ll kick his ass.” 

“Tough talk coming from Mr. Heartbreaker himself,” Richie jokes, knowing that Bill is absolutely right.

“Oh ho ho,” Bill laughs sarcastically, “Richie gets off a good one!” 

“Who’s breaking hearts?” Ben asks, walking back into the dining room with Mike, neither of whom sit down. Before Richie can answer with any sort of witty comeback, however, he sees his phone, sitting on the table, suddenly light up. It’s buzzing incessantly, the way he had it set up for phone calls. Beverly probably took it off Do Not Disturb when she had it earlier, which is proven by the unflattering picture of his manager taking up the entire screen. Beverly, Ben, and Mike all look between Richie and his phone in confusion, not quite sure who is calling him, but Bill looks just as shocked as Richie. Richie doesn’t want to answer. He doesn’t know if he can. But he also knows that he can’t exactly avoid this forever. 

After a few meaningful looks that Richie can’t decipher are sent his way, Bill reaches out and picks up the phone, answering it with a cheery professional voice that sounds nothing like the Bill he’d been joking with a second ago. It’s slow and stutterless and entirely _not_ Big Bill Denbrough, but instead William Denbrough, best-selling author. 

“Richie cannot come to the phone right now, Bill Denbrough speaking, how can I help you?” 

Richie can hear the annoyed, loud tone of his manager through the speakers, but can’t make out any words. Bill looks to Richie, then towards the hallway the leads to the laundry room and back again, asking permission to take this call elsewhere. With Richie’s nod, he’s off. 

“Everything alright, Rich?” Mike asks, putting a hand on his shoulder. 

“Um, yeah. Yeah, I think so. Manager,” he says. To be honest, he’s not really sure if he’s telling the truth; not really sure if he _is_ alright, but he doesn’t really have the energy or brain capacity to be worried about the state of his career or his manager’s ire right now. 

“If you’re sure,” Mike says, waiting for Richie’s nod. “Bev and I are gonna go back upstairs and bring down the rest of the stuff from your room and get it finished up. We were thinking that you and Ben could make some popcorn and pick a movie. End this night the right way?” 

It’s not a question, Mike and Beverly are already heading for the stairs while Ben hauls Richie out of his seat and herds him into the living room. 

“Wow, Mike did a great job with the place,” Ben notes, stopping to look not at the pictures on the wall but at the design of the space. It strikes Richie that, of all his friends, Ben probably should have been the one to make his living room fit for living again. What with all of his experience and all. But Richie isn’t sure whether architects really think much about the interior design aspects or not, and he was busy in the kitchen anyway so it doesn’t really matter that much. “Wanna ruin it?” he asks, shocking Richie out of his thoughts. 

“What?” Richie asks, incredulously. 

“I mean, not permanently, but I just had the _greatest_ idea,” Ben says, and he sounds a bit too much like a kid in a candy store for Richie to shoot down whatever idea he has in mind. “How about we drag down the two mattresses from the guest rooms, combine them on the floor and make a blanket fort. That way none of us need to sleep alone tonight!” 

“Oh. I didn’t know you guys were planning on staying,” Richie says. 

“Of course we are, Richie. If that’s okay with you I mean. It’s just… well, what good would it be if we just all left you alone again?”

“You’re going to have to. Eventually.” 

“Well, that’s even more of a reason to make good use of the time we have. So whaddya say? Blanket fort?” Ben’s got that sparkle in his eye, the same one that Richie remembers Bill raving about when he mentioned meeting this cool new kid who knew how to build a _real_ dam. Even if he wanted to, Richie wouldn’t have been able to say no. 

“Sure. Why the hell not.” Richie smiles. Ben smiles back, ushering him towards the stairs. He’s confident that Ben and literally anyone else in the house would be able to get the two queen-sized mattresses downstairs with ease, but Richie is less than confident about his own mattress moving abilities. He’d never really been the strongest or most agile guy. Even the trek up the stairs and into the guest bedroom makes him feel a little winded. 

“Alright just… strip the bed of everything but the fitted sheet and throw it on the floor for now,” Ben says, once they make it into the first bedroom. 

“And ruin all of Beverly’s hard work? I think not. If you want to get your ass kicked, be my guest buddy,” Richie says, eyeing the neatly made bed, complete with throw pillows he hadn’t known he owned and a comforter that is, surprisingly, free of stains. It looks just as good as the day he bought the house, and he doesn't want to destroy that. Ben, however, doesn't care. He looks Richie dead in the eyes as he begins to toss the mess of pillows on the floor and gather the comforter and sheet in his hand to toss them in the same spot. 

“Pussy,” he jokes. “Now help me lift this up.” 

“If you say so, Mr. Bossman,” Richie replies. He eyes the bed reluctantly while trying to be cheerful, to hide how daunted he is by the task. They each grab one end of the mattress, on opposite sides, and lift it on its side towards Ben. With Ben’s patient instructions, and many breaks for Richie, they manage to make it to the stairs. Richie stares down at them, knowing that the fun is just beginning. How the hell are they going to get this downstairs without hurting themselves? 

“You got anything super breakable and/or sentimental near the stairs?” Ben asks. Richie turns to look around the mattress at him, confused. 

“Uh, don’t think so. If I do, I guess it can't be that important if I’ve never noticed it.” 

“Cool,” Ben acknowledges in a way that suggests he wasn’t _really_ listening to Richie’s answer, before giving one forceful shove onto the mattress Richie was barely holding on to, causing it to go flying down the stairs. 

“Holy shit!” Richie screeches, jumping back. He watches in stunned silence as it makes its way down, not flopping on the floor at the bottom but instead half on the floor, and half on the stairs, sagging a bit on the right side railing. “Dude! What the fuck!” 

Ben shrugs. “Efficiency. No way in hell we were gonna get that thing downstairs with your noodle arms.” Richie pouts as he follows Ben into the next room, making some sort of half-hearted defense on behalf of his arms that are absolutely noodles. Doesn’t mean Ben’s gotta point it out though. They repeat the same process, this time with Richie helping Ben strip the bed. They keep the fitted sheet on this one as well and struggle all the way to the stairs. Now that Richie has had sufficient warning of what is to come next, he’s practically vibrating with excitement. Even more so when Ben lets him be the one to push the mattress down the stairs. He considers it for a moment, not so gung-ho about pushing it down like Ben was. 

“You know, I’ve always thought that one scene in _The Princess Diaries_ was super cool. You know, the—” 

“Slumber party scene. Yeah.” Ben interrupts, looking contemplatively between the mattress and the stairs, before sighing dejectedly. “It’s a queen size mattress. Too wide to fit down the stairs like that, sorry man.” Ben looks about as beat up about this as Richie feels. In order to make them both happy, however, Richie pushes this mattress down the stairs to join the other one, and it feels _great._ It’s the exact kind of fun he hasn’t had since he was a child. The kind that adults aren’t supposed to indulge in. Richie never really understood why, but he tried his darndest to be the best adult he could be. Not sure it really worked, however. 

The second mattress doesn’t fly down the stairs nearly as fast as the first one, but Richie is happy to note that his attempt does end up going further than Ben’s, laying flat on the floor at the end of the stairs. Ben furrows his brow in concern as he watches Richie who stares down at the mattresses on the floor, considering something. 

“No.” Ben stops him, knowing exactly what he’s thinking. 

“But—!” 

“No, man. You’re 40 years old, you’re definitely going to break _multiple_ somethings if you try to jump down there and land on that mattress. They're good mattresses, but not _that_ good” Ben’s right, Richie knows he is. He can practically feel the knee and back pain that the jump would cause. “Besides, we gotta gather up all the blankets and stuff first.” 

Richie heads back into the first guest bedroom to gather up the discarded bedding while Ben heads to the other to do the same. Though, he doesn’t get very far when he hears a soft, “What the fuck,” come from the stairs. It’s said with so much _feeling_ that it causes Richie to drop everything in his hands and bend over in laughter. It takes him way too long to actually calm himself down enough to pick it all up, but he’s sure Ben won’t mind how slow he’s being. Cleaning his room earlier was cathartic, and almost freeing in a way. But making this giant mess with Ben feels the same exact way. The mess of his room felt terrible and all-consuming, but something about throwing the mattresses and all the bedclothes down the stairs, knowing that it’s for a good reason, fills him with childish joy. When he makes his way back to the stairs, with all the pillows, he sees that a mass of blankets has joined the mattresses, and a path has been carved out of them at the very left of the stairs, presumably where Beverly and Mike have been walking as they walk between his room and the trash can outside with their bags.

It takes a few more trips, but he and Ben manage to scrounge up all of the blankets that exist on this floor of the house, save for the ones currently being washed or the ones in his room. The stairs have become a mess of blankets, and there's a considerable pile on one of the mattresses. In truth, it's not really that many blankets, but Richie is shocked at just how high the piles are considering he doesn’t recognize more than half of these blankets. Most of the heft though is from the two queen size comforters that take up residence on the flat mattress. 

“You know, that blanket pile on the flat mattress looks pretty sturdy. Bet it’d be real comfortable to land on,” Ben suggests. 

“Absolutely not,” A voice chimes in from behind them, and both Richie and Ben turn to glare at Beverly, who stands with a trash bag in one hand and her hip in the other. “You are not going to take both of yourself out of commission before you can clean this mess up tomorrow and bring these mattresses back upstairs. Just go _walk_ down the stairs and make your fort,” she chides, pushing past them and expertly walking down the stairs without tripping on any of the blankets. If only she had this grace when she was stumbling around Richie’s dump of a room. It takes a few seconds for Bev’s words to really sink in, but when they do Richie turns to Ben with a desperate, pained look on his face only to see that Ben is mirroring his same look. 

“How the hell are we supposed to get this stuff back up?” Ben asks, horrified. Richie swallows, imagining both of them struggling to push that mattress back up the stairs. It’s not like they can just throw it up there like they did to get it down. They lock eyes, twin expressions of horror before laughing heartily. It’s going to be a pain in the ass tomorrow to right everything, but Richie can’t find it in himself to mind all that much right now. Not when he’s this happy. Happier than he’s been in months. What’s a little hard labor if it means keeping the bad thoughts away, even if just for a night? 

Ben stops laughing first, wiping tears away from his eyes, “Come on, we’ve got work to do.” 

They both make it down the stairs with much more trouble than Beverly had, picking up blankets and pillows as they go. Not all of their original throws had been very good, which is made clear by the mess on the stairs and railings. But Richie manages to get it all piled up onto the mattresses while Ben makes his way into the living room to clear out a path. Ben’s done quicker than expected, and as Richie is throwing the last pillow onto one of the two flattened mattresses, he returns to help Richie drag them into his living room. The couches have returned to their earlier space along the walls and the table he had at the center was now pushed along another wall. After laying out the mattresses in the center in front of the TV, squishing them side by side, Ben moves the couches back, surrounding the mattresses on two sides, with an ease that has Richie standing and staring with his mouth wide open. He’s not sure if he’s jealous of Ben for his strength or Beverly for her _Ben_ . He snaps out of it when Ben starts removing the cushions and doing _something_ with them that he assumes is going to hold up the blanket walls. 

It’s not long before both Beverly and Mike join them after finishing up his room, and with Ben’s careful instruction (and some ogling on both Beverly and Richie’s part) they manage to make a pretty good team, setting up a sturdy fort complete with a large enough entranceway for each of them to crawl into and access to the TV. It’s a little dark, but that’s quickly changed when the TV is turned on, playing whatever news channel was last on it. 

They spend some time bickering over what they’re going to watch while they wait for Bill to get back from the phone call. He’s been gone for so long that Richie finds himself fidgeting restlessly, twitching with anxiety. When his fidgeting starts to get annoying, Beverly, who sits on his right and separates him from Ben, grabs his hands and pulls them towards her, playing with them so as to distract him from his relentless tapping. He’d been worried since Bill left to take the call, but he’d been so preoccupied that it stayed neatly in the back of his mind. But now, with each minute that passes without a movie to distract him, Richie internally freaks out. He doesn’t know what would be worse, for Bill to crawl into their fort, Richie’s safe space, to tell him he doesn’t have a job anymore, or to tell him that he does. 

When Richie hears the shuffling from near the entrance, he jerks his head to see Bill struggle climbing in. If he hadn’t been so worried, he’d have probably laughed, but he can’t really think much around the fearful thoughts swirling in his head. Once Bill’s finally in and sitting on the mattresses, on the edge near Ben, he tosses Richie’s phone back to him. 

“...Well?” Richie asks, his voice a little shaky. Bill doesn’t respond, instead letting his eyes flit to the other Losers and back to Richie. He knows what Bill is silently trying to say, but Richie doesn’t want them to leave. He allows himself to lean to his right to slot into Mike’s side, his hands still entwined with Beverly’s on his other side, as if to say that he doesn’t want them to go anywhere. 

“What do you want, Richie?” Bill asks, quite cryptically much to the annoyance of Richie. 

“What do you mean, man? Just tell me what Steve wanted,” he demands. Bill shakes his head no, which only causes Richie’s frustration to build. 

“No. Not until you tell me what you want. Do you want to continue your career, the way it was?” Bill asks. Richie opens his mouth, but Bill plows on, talking fast but without that familiar stutter. “Honestly dude, I’ve seen your standup. It’s not _that_ bad but— Listen, I know you don’t write your own stuff, but you’re not even you when you’re on stage. You don’t look happy. I don’t want you to think about what your manager wants, or what your fans want, or even what we want. Richie, do you want to continue?” 

Richie is shocked. He’d thought of quitting so many times since he’d gotten back from Derry. By the time he’d come back, he’d realized that he hadn’t enjoyed comedy in years. Yeah, the money was great, but was it really worth it? He’d thought so many times about finally picking up the phone and shutting everything down, and he drafted so many texts to his manager, but in the end, he never allowed himself to make a decision. He didn’t call Steve back in fear of losing him, and potentially his entire career. He both does and doesn't want to go back, and he isn't sure what to do. 

“I don’t know,” he mutters, looking into Bill’s eyes as if he’ll find an answer somewhere in there. 

“Can you see yourself getting back into it? Getting back up on stage, telling someone else’s jokes, or maybe even telling your own?” Beverly squeezes his hand as Bill talks, her way of trying to reassure him. 

In a weird sort of way, he _can_ see himself doing it. He can see himself, from a third-person point of view, getting up on stage and doing the same routine from when he’d canceled halfway through his tour to leave for Derry. He can see it as clearly as the high tech cameras that sometimes filmed him always were. But when he tries to imagine _being_ that man up on stage, looking into the blinding lights and listening to the laughter of the audience he can’t even see, he feels sick. Not enough to throw up, but enough to make his head spin. He can feel the eyes of the audience on him, looking deep into his soul in the same way that It did. He’d spent so many years craving the attention and the eyes on him, that he’d forgotten how long he’d spent as a child fear that someone would _see_ him. And now the thought that they might do just that makes him want to crawl back into his bedroom and never come out, again. 

“You have a lot of options,” Bill supplies. 

“I can’t,” Richie chokes. “I can’t, Bill. Not when they’re going to see me, man, I can’t.” Mike’s arm, which had situated comfortably around Richie's waist when he leaned into him, pulls Richie in tighter as if to comfort him. Richie wishes he could turn around and bury his face into Mike’s chest, away from the prying eyes of his friends, but he can’t find it in himself to break the eye contact with Bill. 

“You don’t have to,” Bill assures him, making no move to comfort him. 

“You’re already plenty rich, Richie. I’m sure if you budget correctly you could retire now if you wanted,” Ben chimes in. 

“Or you could try something else,” Beverly adds, leaning into Ben without dislodging her hand from Richie’s. “You always used to say you wanted to be a ventriloquist. Don’t know how lucrative that business is nowadays, unless you’re Jeff Dunham— which I guess is the opposite of what you want, but you could probably do something with the voices?” 

“You’re already in Hollywood, you could try voice acting,” Mike says, “No one will even have to see your face.” 

Bill looks at each of them, smiling. Richie still can’t look away, but he finds that he no longer wants to. Not with the comfort that the look on Bill’s face is giving him. 

“I hear podcasts are pretty big these days,” Bill replies. This idea is the first one to make Richie snort, no longer on the verge of crying, having a breakdown, or just straight up getting sick all over the makeshift bed. 

“Aren’t there enough podcasts from washed-up celebrities interviewing other washed-up celebrities?” Richie asks, looking away for the first time to make a show of rolling his eyes. 

“That’s not all podcasts are and you know it. You could do a comedy podcast. Or a story one, where you voice all the characters. Richie, you’re a rich white guy in Hollywood, you don’t have ever get back up on stage if you don’t want to. You have _ssso_ many options.” 

“Ah, using the privilege card against me. Jokes on you Bill, I’m a minority now.” Richie feels MIke snort-scoff from behind him, and he doesn’t want to dwell on what that could mean, “Certified, cardholding faggot.” 

Everyone winces at the use of the word faggot, but no one says anything. They’re not really sure if it’s their place too or not. Richie sighs, letting the tension-free from his body and leaning into Mike even more. 

“Can we just drop it, for now? I don’t know what I want to do, but I don’t think it’s stand up anymore. That’s all I know,” he declares. Richie is 40 years old and well into adulthood. He knows he doesn’t need the approval of Bill anymore than he did when he was 13, but he still kind of wants it. “...Is that okay?”

“Totally fine. You don’t have to figure anything out right now. If you want, I can call Steve again tomorrow and talk to him about it,” Bill assures him. 

“Oof, have fun with that,” Richie jokes. “Man’s got a wee bit of a tempah, that one.” 

It’s the first time Richie has used one of his voices all day, and though it’s not the same exact British Guy he used to do as a kid, it’s familiar enough to put a smile on everyone’s faces. 

“Yeah, I’ve noticed. Lucky for me, I’ve got just a bit of experience dealing with neurotic hot-heads.” Bill actually has the audacity to wink at Richie as he says this, causing Richie to _blush_ like some sort of schoolgirl and look away. He feels Mike trying to hold back a laugh, and Richie decides that’s enough. 

“Okay!” He springs up, nearly colliding his head with Mike’s chin. “I’m gonna go make us some popcorn and by the time I get back you guys better have a movie picked!” He scrambles to get out of the suffocating fort. He’s not actually upset, but the embarrassment at being _exposed_ by one of his closest friends leaves him feeling too pent up to be around them. He needs to take a quick break and calm his nerves. He knows that they don’t judge him and that they still love him. He knows this, but it’s still new. He’s definitely going to be getting these same anxious butterflies anytime anyone brings up either the gay thing _or_ the Eddie thing. Or, in Bill’s case, both. 

_That’s trauma, baby!_ he thinks, in the same voice he’s used to say _that’s showbiz, baby!_ countless times over the years. 

Richie makes his way to the kitchen, intent on keeping his promise of making popcorn while also needing to down a glass of water to ease his dry throat. He itches to open his alcohol cabinet, but he knows it would be a bad idea, whether there’s alcohol in there or not. God, he would kill for a drink right now, has been itching for one pretty much all day, but he’s sure that if he took even a sip, he would not be the one doing the killing. So instead of reaching for that cupboard, the one with all of his drinking glasses in it, he reaches into the dishwasher to grab a now clean, still hot cup and fill it with tap water, which he downs with minimal spillage. He counts that as a success before filling it up once more and drinking it at a much more reasonable pace. He allows his face to cool down just a bit before he searches for wherever popcorn might be. He’s not actually sure if he has any, but he looks nonetheless. 

“It’s in the drawer on your left,” a voice says from the kitchen entryway. When Richie looks up, Ben is walking towards him, opening the same drawer he had just pointed out to Richie and pulling out a box filled with packets of microwave popcorn. “Figured you might need some help finding stuff.” 

“Cheers, mate!” Richie says, still using the new and improved British Guy, which had changed just a bit since their first meeting all those years ago. 

Richie leans back on the counter as he watches Ben toss a packet of popcorn into the microwave. Richie isn’t stupid, he knows that Ben isn’t here simply to help Richie _make popcorn_ . He’s not _that_ useless. Even if Richie wasn’t the one who bought the groceries and put them away, this is still his house and he would have found it eventually. But he isn't going to pry. If Ben wants to talk to him about something, he’s going to have to be the one to say it first. Until then, though, Richie plans on watching the muscles in Ben’s back move through his tight t-shirt. He’s _openly_ gay now, he can do that. He’s sure Beverly would understand. 

“So uh,” Ben starts, turning around to face him. “Eddie, huh?” 

Richie lets out a quick breath through his nose, clearly amused. 

“Eddie, indeed,” Richie responds cheekily, again with the voice.

“Can I ask… what it was? About him.” Ben’s face is so sincere; so soft and open that Richie wishes only for a second that it could have been Ben he’d fallen for all those years ago. Being in love with Ben wouldn't have been quite as convenient as being in love with Beverly like the rest of the guys were, but it probably would have been pretty fucking nice. 

“Dunno, man,” Richie sighs, using his own voice again and choosing to be honest instead of making a joke about Eddie’s mother. He could, but he doesn’t really want to. “Everything, I guess. What was it about her?” 

“Dunno,” Ben shrugs, a sly smile on his face. “Everything.” 

“Hi- _lar_ -ious,” Richie scoffs, but the roll of his eyes is contradicted by the wide smile on his face.

“She was just, so cool, y’know? I liked her before we were even friends, I think mostly because she was unattainable and well… she was cute. Of course, I knew what everyone was saying about her, but I didn’t really care. And then we became friends and it just— I don't know, spiraled. She was so much cooler than I thought, so much better. Even coming back, she was just so strong. I don’t know, it’s hard to explain. I just kinda knew, I think.” The microwave dings just then, and Ben busies himself with getting a bowl to pour the popcorn into. Though, one bag certainly isn’t enough for all of them, so he pops in another. 

“I don’t know what it was about him, either. He certainly wasn’t _cool,”_ he laughs, Ben joining in. “But that didn’t really matter to me. He was just— he was Eddie. And when it was just us I never had to be anything but Richie. He gave me shit all the time, but I never felt like I had to hide when I was with him. He was just— it was different, with us.” 

“Yeah, I think we all were able to see that, even if we didn’t really know what it meant at the time.” Ben smiles. “Listen, Richie. I’m sorry. Bev and I—” 

“Don’t.” 

“We didn’t know. We weren’t trying to hurt you, in the quarry. If we’d have known…” 

“You didn’t.” Richie shrugs, suddenly uncomfortable. 

“Still. We were just happy that we made it out alive when we should have been mourning our friends.” 

“You were celebrating. We had just killed the monster that had been ruining our lives since 1989, of _course_ you were celebrating, man. I can’t hold that against you.” Richie can see in his eyes that Ben doesn’t necessarily believe that Richie _doesn’t_ hold it against them. After all, their conversation at dinner clearly seemed to say otherwise. “Sometimes it is hard. Seeing you guys so happy, when I know that me and Eddie will never have that. But, who’s to say that we would have even if he lived?” 

“You would have,” Ben says, with a voice that says he’s absolutely sure he’s right. Richie doesn’t believe him. “Eddie _loved_ you, Richie. Yeah, you were always fighting but he got on your ass about stuff because he loved you.” 

“And so did Stan,” Richie replies. “But that doesn’t mean we would have rode off into the sunset together. I know he loved me. But he loved all of you. You can’t say for sure that it was different with me.” 

“You said it yourself, Richie. It was different between the two of you.” 

“Yeah, when we were kids. I know you’re trying to be optimistic and all, but it doesn’t matter anyway, does it? He’s gone, and that fucking _sucks.”_ Richie’s surprised he’s not crying, but he’s probably gotten that all out of his system today. “But it’s the truth. Maybe he would have loved me. Maybe everything would have turned out okay like it is for you and Beverly, but it can’t. And that’s… well, it’s not fine. But I gotta accept it at some point.” 

Ben ignores the beeping of the microwave to wrap Richie into a hug, which he melts into. Richie’s hands ball the back of Ben’s shirt into his fists as he buries his face into Ben’s neck and takes a deep whiff of his cologne. He’s not really a words kinda guy, so despite being shrouded in this smell all day from the cardigan, he still can’t place what it smells like. Yet, he gets the same feeling now as he did when he put it on. He feels safe. It’s an emotion that he can only describe as coming _home_ and that alone nearly sets Richie off into tears again. 

“You’ll find someone, Richie. One day, it’s not going to hurt as much, and you’re gonna find a guy who makes you so damn happy.” Ben pats his back. 

Richie pulls away from the hug reluctantly. He moves towards the microwave, taking out the popcorn packet and pouring it into the bowl with the other one. 

“I can’t imagine a time in which I won't love him, man,” he admits, glad he isn’t facing Ben for this one. 

“You don’t have to stop loving him. I think, if it were Beverly, I wouldn’t have ever stopped loving her either. But you can love more than one person.” 

Richie thinks back to Sandy, the only person he ever thought he was in love with. After coming back from Derry, Richie thought that maybe he was wrong about her. Maybe he didn’t love her after all, because what he felt for her didn’t hold a candle to what he felt for Eddie. And if he didn’t fight for her when they broke up, did he really love her? He’s beginning to think that maybe he did. They weren’t the one for each other, and he certainly didn’t love her nearly as much as he loved Eddie, but maybe he did love her in a way. Maybe Ben is right. He doesn’t think he’ll ever love anyone as much as he loved Eddie, but that doesn’t mean his love for him takes up the entirety of his heart. 

“Do you think you still loved her, in the years in between?” Richie asks, purposefully changing the subject. 

“I kept her signature in my wallet for years. I didn’t remember who she was, but I knew she was important,” Ben responds. “Did you?” 

“I think so. I always felt like there was something missing. Like there was something bigger out there, waiting for me. But mostly, I think I just missed all of you.” Richie finally turns back around, bowl of popcorn in his hand, offering it to Ben who takes some. 

“I never had any friends later on like I had when I was with you guys.” 

Richie doesn’t respond, he only smiles. He begins to walk out of the kitchen before Ben stops him. 

“I really am sorry, Richie. If Bev and I ever make you feel like—” 

“You’re good for each other. I'm really happy for you. I’m sorry I said all those things at dinner,” Richie interrupts, turning around to look at Ben, who’s staring at his own feet. “I’m not going to lie to you. Sometimes it hurts more than anything in the world to see you two being happy together. It sucks, but I’ve also never been happier for two people. I’m so glad you both found each other. Like, I don’t even have the words to describe how much I love both of you. I just need you to know that I do love you both, so much, and that I will always support you both.”

“Really?” 

“Of course.” Richie rolls his eyes. “But if she hurts you, I’m not above fighting a girl. I’d definitely kick _your_ ass for her, verbally at least, because I'm not sure I could physically take either of you, but that doesn’t mean I won't kick _her_ ass for you too. Now come on, we don’t want sweet Beverly to get jealous. We’ve been in here an awful long time,” he jokes, winking at Ben with his entire face before dragging him out of the kitchen and back into the fort. 

“Richie said he could kick your ass,” Ben says to Beverly the second they get back into the fort, causing Richie to yell. 

“Hey, man, not cool! And after we had that heart to heart and everything. I thought you were on my side. We’ll see if I ever do anything nice for you again,” he scoffs, making sure to really play up the false hurt and offense. 

“As if. He wishes he could take me in a fight,” Beverly comments, shoving popcorn into her mouth to hide the smile. 

“Bev’s probably right,” Bill adds, causing Richie to squawk in indignation. He looks towards Mike, obviously wanting someone on his side, but Mike just raises his hands sheepishly and refuses not to answer. 

“If Eddie were here, he’d be on my side,” he grumbles. 

“No, he wouldn’t,” Beverly scoffs. 

“Stan—” 

“Would definitely be on Beverly’s side,” Bill interrupts. Richie can’t even argue that point. For as much as Stan loved him, he was always first to line up to see Richie get absolutely dunked on by any of the other Losers. If he wasn’t the one to do it himself, anyway. 

“Face it, Richie. I’d destroy your ass.” 

“Oh, I wish you would, Marsh,” Richie winks, trying to change tactics. It doesn’t exactly work the way he hopes it would, but it does keep her from saying anything back and instead causes her to throw a handful of popcorn at him. Richie wants to retaliate, but Ben is holding the bowl hostage from him from where he sits on the other side of Beverly. 

Richie rolls his eyes. “Just don’t hurt Haystack and you won't have a reason to catch these hands.” Mike snorts at Richie’s word choice. 

“Never,” Beverly promises, looking into Ben’s eyes lovingly. Richie looks towards Bill, and sticks a finger in his mouth and makes exaggerated gagging noises. He stops when Beverly leans up to kiss Ben and though he still feels a little uncomfortable with the whole couple-act, he’s happy enough to see them happy that a smile overtakes his face. He wishes that, someday, he could have what they have. Maybe he and Eddie could have been something. For now, though, he’ll just have to deal with being happy for two of the people he loves most in this world. 

They spend the rest of the night watching either movies that Richie has been in or adaptations of Bill’s novels. All of which they roast relentlessly. Richie hasn’t been in that many movies, but in order to make it through them all, they just fast forward to his scenes and abandon them when his part is finished. None of the movies he’s been in are really that interesting anyway. The way they all roast each other, focusing on Bill and Richie this time, is comforting in a way that Richie thinks is probably a little bit fucked up. But that’s what happens in a friend group who proudly claim that they’re all _Losers_. Hearing how ugly Richie looked in one movie, or how his acting skills in his first were terrible makes him just as happy as mindless praise from an audience would have. And though he gives Bill endless shit for the shitty endings to the movies based on his books, he’s never felt more pride for anyone else in his life. 

It’s happy and comfortable, and Richie wishes with all his heart that they could share this moment with Eddie and Stan as well. The thought doesn’t send him into a depressive spiral like it would have a week ago, or even this morning. He doesn’t find himself thinking about how upset he is that they’re gone, or how guilty he feels for their death. He just hopes that wherever they are, they’re watching down on this moment, roasting Bill and Richie with the rest of them. Eddie and Stan were always the best at that. 

“At least they’re together,” Richie says. Bill asks what he means, still absorbed in whatever movie is playing that Richie stopped paying attention to awhile ago. Richie can feel, from where he’s resumed laying on Mike’s chest, the way Mike makes a contented hum as if he knows what Richie is trying to say. 

“Eddie and Stan. They’re gone, but at least they’re not alone. At least they have each other.” 

Beverly smiles, looking up at the blanket ceiling of the fort as if she could just look a little bit harder and see Stan and Eddie watching over them. 

“Yeah. Yeah, they do,” she murmurs. 

After that, no one speaks. It’s that time of the night where they’re all beginning to be taken by sleep. Mike is the first one to fall. Richie doesn’t even notice until Ben points out how he’s snoring. If he’s being honest, the constant stream of breath and the subtle rumble in Mike’s chest was lulling him to sleep as well. Bill, unsurprisingly, is next. Bill and Stan were always the ones who fell asleep first at sleepovers. Mike was usually just after them, but he had a pass since he had to be up at dawn every morning to help on the farm. Beverly, Ben, and Richie all stay awake a little longer, and Richie is surprised to find that he’s the one who can only respond to Ben and Beverly’s quiet conversation with wordless, tired grunts. Usually, Beverly, Richie, and Eddie were the only ones who stayed up late when they were kids. 

“Come on, let’s take down the blankets before one of us knocks them over in our sleep and suffocates all of us,” Ben says, dislodging a grumbling Beverly from his chest and getting onto his knees, not exactly able to stand up with how low the blanket ceiling is. 

“Oh, but what a way to go,” Richie sighs dramatically, making no move to help. 

“Richie,” Ben says, pointedly. Not wanting to fight, Richie gets up to help Ben start taking the blankets down, grumbling about how Ben isn’t making Beverly help, to which Ben just shrugs and says, “Girlfriend privileges.” which has Richie grumbling all over again _._

“Don’t you tempt me, Haystack. I’ll steal you away in a heartbeat.” 

“As if,” Beverly snorts, from where she has taken Richie’s place, curled up on Mike’s chest.

Richie and Ben make quick work of taking down the blankets and tossing them just outside the couches, saving only the two comforters, a few soft throw blankets and the handful of pillows that rested on the mattresses. At some point, Bill migrated opposite of his original position to be on the left of Mike, at the very edge of their mega bed. Unlike Beverly, he didn’t cuddle up on Mike, but the dismantling of the fort must have woken both he and Mike up because as Richie and Ben continue to dismantle, they watch on without a move to help. 

“What help you guys are,” Richie complains, flopping himself back onto the bed next to Beverly, who doesn't bother to actually get up and move. Instead, she rolls right over top of Richie so that when Ben lays down he can be between them. Richie makes sure to grunt dramatically when Beverly puts her weight onto him, but she isn’t actually all that heavy. 

“If I were straight, that would have been the greatest moment of my life,” he jokes. 

“Beep beep Richie,” he hears from multiple voices, though he can’t say which ones actually said it. Maybe _all_ of them did. A part of him thinks that he heard Stan’s voice, or maybe Eddie’s, but that’s probably just his tired mind. 

When Ben lays down Beverly immediately cuddles up on his chest, and Ben keeps his left arm open as if inviting Richie to do the same. Richie, having been cuddled on Mike all night long and craving that sort of comfort again, takes this invitation gleefully, cuddling up just below Ben’s chin and pressing his nose into Beverly’s hair. Mike, who had been waiting for everyone else to get situated, wraps his arm around Richie’s waist and places his hand atop Beverly’s, which she had placed atop Ben’s stomach. Richie can also feel Bill’s hand, arm thrown over Mike, resting on his hip. Richie has never felt more comfortable in his life, surrounded by all of the people he loves. It doesn’t take him long to fall asleep at all, and for the first time in months, the first thing he sees isn’t a nightmare. 

Usually, they show up right away. A constant all-night marathon of not only what actually happened, but what could have been. He’s seen everything, from the death of Eddie, to what he assumes to be the visions he had in the deadlights of all his friends dying. When conscious, he doesn’t really remember them, but his mind sure likes to replay them in his dreams. He sees Stan sometimes, getting into the bathtub that has a little too much detail for it not to be a deadlight induced vision. He’s always wondered if this was how Beverly felt. 

This time, however, he dreams he’s floating. Not in the terrifying Pennywise, Y _ou'll float too_ way, but on his back, surrounded by water. He’s not afraid of drowning like he would be in real life. He feels content, as he watches a giant turtle float by. He lies on his back, soaking up the sun and wishing things could stay like this forever. 

The turtle doesn’t speak to him, because… well, it’s a turtle. He can’t see a mouth moving but he can almost feel words cementing themselves into Richie's soul _._

_You’ve done well, Richie._

Richie doesn’t reply, but it seems the turtle knows what he’s thinking anyway. 

_I cannot help you any more than I already have. What has happened cannot be changed and there is no bringing them back. I am sorry._

The nightmares don’t stay away, however. A little too quickly, the scene falls away and Richie is back in the cistern. It’s a little messy, in the way that dreams tend to be. It’s not exactly the way the events of that night actually happened. Events are out of order and he keeps seeing that claw impale Eddie on repeat. He’s leaving Eddie down there to be buried with the clown one second and watching Eddie throw the fence post in the next, knowing exactly what’s coming. 

This nightmare is different in that Richie wakes up this time. He never wakes up from his nightmares, so when his eyes shoot open he thinks for a second he’s still there. But he’s stilled by the arm securely wrapped around his waist, the hand running through his hair and the quiet shushing coming from somewhere above him. He’s terrified, still breathing heavily, but it seems his mind and body are on different planes of thought. His mind is screaming at him to get up and move, to run away, but his body remains relaxed and comfortable. It takes a while for his mind to catch up. He’s safe, and nothing can hurt him here. Not now. He’s enveloped by warmth on all sides, from each point of contact he has with another body, and it’s not long Richie finds himself drifting off to sleep once more. 

There aren’t any more dreams for the rest of the night. It’s not a peaceful sleep. He’s in and out. Vaguely aware of the breathing coming from above and behind him, but in a way that doesn’t betray how the time passes with each blink of his eyes. He opens his eyes, and the room is still bathed in darkness. He blinks and suddenly he can see Beverly’s hair. He blinks again, and the light shining in from the window is higher on the wall than it had been before. After one more blink, he opens his eyes slowly and completely, to see the sun illuminating the room in soft golds. He looks down to see the flaming hair his nose is buried in once more. He can see the golden undertones of the dark skin around him being illuminated by the light, and he’s blinded by the reflection of the light off the wedding band connected to the hand on his waist. When he lets his eyes focus past the flaming halo of hair, he can see the gentle rise and fall of the chest his head is leaning on, and something about that gentle confirmation of life puts him at peace. 

Everything feels a bit in the liminal light of the early morning. He feels safe and comforted here, but also like he’s watching everything from an outside point of view; as if he’s not actually in between all of his friends. Everything is syrupy and sleep thick and Richie has only ever felt this content in the water of his dreams. He knows that he’s not magically cured or that he’s suddenly going to get better, _to be better,_ after this moment. That’s not how it works. But he’ll spend the rest of his life chasing this same happiness and comfort if he has to. He’ll work on it, and he’ll stay alive so that he doesn’t miss any more of this. For the first time in forever, Richie wants to get better. Not for his friends, and not for those who died, but for himself. Richie wants to be happy again. 

With this revelation settling into his gut, and a smile on his face, Richie closes his eyes once more, intending to get a few more moments of blissful sleep before this ends. From outside the window, he can hear two birds chattering at one another, one of which seems to be dominating the conversation. Yet as he lays his head back down, he allows himself to bask in the comfort and falls asleep to only the sounds of 6 bodies breathing in tandem with his own.

**Author's Note:**

> Did anyone catch the Stand By Me/The Body reference? It wasn't exactly subtle lmao.
> 
> God, this fic took me so l o n g to finish. It was just supposed to be a quick one shot, oops. I started it when I myself was in a really dark place and it was definitely one of the biggest reasons that I got out of that place. I know that it's probably really obvious that I'm projecting my feelings onto Richie but,, I'm not sorry lmao. This fic means a lot to me and I'm really happy with it so I hope you are too.
> 
> If you ever start to feel like Richie is in this fic, have the same kind of thoughts he does, or can't take care of yourself _please_ reach out to someone. I promise it is worth it, and there are people out there who care about you and will be there to help you. Richie is lucky to have friends who notice when he isn't at his best without asking for help, but it's not always easy for people to notice these things, and I'm sure the people in your life will be happy you reached out for help. 
> 
> Also!!! The song that Bill, Richie, Mike, and Bev listen to while cleaning Richie's room is We Care a Lot by Faith No More and the playlist that Richie mentions is actually the official Losers' Club playlist that you can listen to [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1t3eyykRmKnKUAx5JGbpq9?si=awjtUS4NQG2qjDJyIaX_0A)!!!!


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